


In The Company of Strangers

by lalakate



Series: In The Company of Strangers [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 200,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalakate/pseuds/lalakate
Summary: One year after Matthew's death, Mary and George take a trip to London that will change their lives forever. Written post S3/pre S4. This Charles Blake is my original creation, so this story diverges from Season 4 canon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Author's Note: I have added the Rape/Non-con tag as small segments of this story deals with past rapes and how the women involved deal with them and move on with their lives. The descriptions are not graphic, nor do they occur in real time during this narrative. But they are mentioned in discussions as the story progresses as a part of some characters' pasts.

Well, she thought with a small pulse of satisfaction, the day had not been a complete disaster.

As she stealthily made her way across the crowded platform with a wailing baby braced tightly to her chest, Mary steeled her mind against any thoughts of guilt or remorse with her decision. They had done it. She and George had spent the entire day in London—alone. She actually smiled softly to herself over the startling feeling of accomplishment that swelled momentarily in her chest before placing a calming kiss on her baby's dark head. It was actually rather quite foolish to feel proud over something so simple, but Mary relished it, awash with relief that she would not have to admit that she had been wrong to her parents.

That would have been mortifying…especially when she had been so insistent that she could do this.

When Mary had startled everyone by announcing her intentions several days ago, she had also thoughtfully and thoroughly explained her reasons for such a decision. Anna was too far along in her pregnancy to accompany them, and Mary could simply not stand the thought of any other servant intruding upon her privacy. On any other day it would have been different. But not this day. Her father had been so adamant at first that it was a simply terrible idea for Mary to even consider taking the baby to the city with no one to assist them—not even Nanny. But her mother had sat in thoughtful silence as the two of them argued the situation, and eventually it was Cora who finally convinced Robert to accept Mary's decision and let the matter rest. Mary had been stunned into silence by her mother's show of support for this London outing, fully expecting that she would have to defy the wishes of both of her parents and even Granny in order to see this through. But Cora seemed to understand the absolute desperation behind Mary's words and stood behind her, firmly supporting her daughter in a crisis once again as she had so very often in Mary's life.

When she cradled Mary in her lap and rocked her in the nursery after her most beloved puppy died and was buried under Mama's favorite rosebush… When young Peter Montgomery had asked Lady Eliza Thornton for the first dance rather than Mary at her own coming out ball… When Mary realized that the entail would truly keep her from any inheritance but also understood just how fiercely her mother had fought for her… When Kamal Pamuk died in her bed… When Mama had been the one to walk into that hospital room to see her new grandson and to tell her daughter the unthinkable…

The unthinkable that was now her reality.

Becoming a mother herself had birthed in Mary a new appreciation for so many things her mother had done for her that she had simply taken for granted. And Mama's support in the London matter had been an unexpected gift that Mary could tell frustrated her father yet bolstered her own feeble courage that she could face this day with some semblance of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might even be able to smile and to enjoy her son for who he was without the sharp pangs of guilt and pain she felt too often when she thought about the day he had been born. Happiness was still far beyond her grasp, but she had to somehow pull herself out of the dark pit of despair and shame in which she had been dwelling for an entire year, for George's sake if not her own. After all, her only child's first birthday should be a joyful occasion. Yet for Mary, the day was forever linked to a pain so blinding that it nearly severed her in half. The same day she welcomed her precious son into the world was the very day the man whose love had given her that child had left it. How could she ever get over this? Was it possible that one day George's birthday would be simply that—his birthday? A day to be celebrated and enjoyed with no thoughts of loss or devastation?

A day when she would not feel as though a part of her was dying all over again?

She prayed that one day it could be so, but for today she had known that she had to be away.

Mary could not remain at the house surrounded by everything that reminded her of him…of them. She could not handle the great party that Mama and Granny were planning for their dearest little boy—NOT today. She did not want to feel everyone's eyes upon her, their unspoken questions thickening the atmosphere of what should be George's day. She did not want to discuss her feelings with anyone, not even Anna or her mother. Mary knew they were concerned about her, and that was an emotion she could simply not tolerate. Today, she needed to breathe fresh air with her son, to walk on streets she had never trod with Matthew, and to be in the blessed company of strangers.

So they had come to London.

The harried porter did his best to keep up with her as she neared her train, and Mary stopped to place a gentle kiss on the cheek of her clearly exhausted son, relishing his warmth pressed up against her. He commenced to chewing on a chubby fist as drool coated his dimpled hand. Mary smiled as she realized George had managed to dampen her shoulder completely, whispering a hushed, "There, there my boy, we shall be home soon."

She knew that home was a comfort for George where he was surrounded by adoration and attention. But Downton was in many ways so hollow for her now—a mere shell of a house where she often found herself dwelling among ghosts and ignoring the living. Perhaps it was not the house but she who was now empty, a body devoid of a spirit. Their souls had become so completely intertwined that Matthew had taken a large portion of her very being with him when he died. Mary had recently begun to wonder if any of those shards of her spirit would ever return. Perhaps they were lost forever. Shaking her head, Mary once more became aware of her surroundings and boarded the train for York, instructing the porter where to set her bags. Once comfortably situated, she quickly retrieved a teething ring—a gift from Isobel—and George's most beloved toy, a rather large Teddy Bear from Grandmama in America, to comfort the wailing boy.

"Are you happy now, my sweet?" she asked the boy whose eyelids were already beginning to droop. Mary smiled indulgently as she stroked her child's cheek, the utter softness of it still astonishing to her. His clear, blue eyes focused on her a moment before a yawn that stretched his entire face into a humorous yet utterly adorable expression overtook him. George contentedly nuzzled in closer to his mother's breast and blissfully fell asleep.

_If only it were so easy for me, my precious boy. How I should love to be able to simply sleep and forget._

A tear slid unbidden down her cheek, and Mary let it fall. It seemed quite unnecessary to attempt to hold them back any longer. She was alone now with her son with no one to see her weakness and sorrow, no prying yet concerned eyes to watch her grieve. She finally allowed herself to give into the weight that had been pressing on her chest all day and lowered her face, weeping for the man she still yearned for with every fiber of her being, the one person who had chosen to love her simply for herself. Matthew—her lover, her confidante, her best friend. He should be here with them now, holding his son, cooing over his new tooth and how well he could now pull himself up. How he would have laughed at George today as he mimicked the duck calls at the park, crawling after them with determination and pointing to them with a delighted smile as he gurgled, "Duck! Duck!" And the look on George's face when his mother had let him try his first taste of ice cream would have had his father roaring with laughter.

_Oh, Matthew…you have missed so much! He is so like you, but you do not even know him._

Mary pressed her lips together tightly, desperately attempting to muffle the sound of her crying so as to not wake her sleeping son. Her chest heaved as she drew shallow breaths, suddenly realizing that she now needed her handkerchief to keep her tears from falling on George's face. She leaned down so she could retrieve it from her bag, still sobbing in earnest when her privacy was disturbed. The door to her compartment suddenly flew open, and Mary looked up, quickly wiping her tears at the intrusion that was so rudely interrupting her time of solitary grieving.

"Forgive me, ma'am," a man's rich voice exclaimed. "I must have the wrong berth. I did not realize that this compartment was occupied."

Too stunned to move, Mary simply stared at the man, frozen momentarily in shock until she quickly recovered as much dignity as she could muster.

"No, no, it's quite alright," she stammered, embarrassed at being seen in such a state, attempting to dry her tears with her bare hand.

"Here. Take mine," the man offered, quickly withdrawing his handkerchief from his side pocket and placing it in her free hand.

A fresh wave of tears spilled forth as the damn within her finally unleashed. Mary clutched the smooth, cool cloth to her face, despising the fact that she showing weakness to this man she did not even know but completely powerless to stop herself.

"You may keep it, my lady," the stranger offered gallantly, true concern etching his features as he watched the woman before him fall completely apart. "Is there anything I can do for you? Is your husband nearby, perhaps?"

His innocent inquiry triggered an emotional chain reaction within her as something unseen snapped. A sharp, painful jolt seized Mary, and she raised her dark eyes to his.

"My husband is dead," she whispered through her teeth, startling herself with the direct frankness of her answer.

Her eyes widened in shock before her expression finally crumpled. Mary again hid her face in the handkerchief as her voice broke. "Oh, God, he is dead!"

It was then that the stranger seemed to make a decision and stepped into her compartment, closing the door firmly behind him. He sat across from Mary, watching her weep before he leaned forward, supporting himself on his elbows and replying gently, "I am so sorry."

"So am I," Mary breathed, attempting again to gain some control over her emotions but having very little luck in doing so. She began to rock George back and forth although the child showed no signs of waking, trying to choke back the streams of tears that seemed determined to fall.

"May I ask how long ago he died?" he inquired, a trace of hesitation in his voice.

"A year," Mary answered, keeping her eyes fixed upon her son as she tried to regain control of her emotions. "One year ago today."

He stared at the pair in front of him, looking very much to his eyes like a tragic Madonna and child, their exquisite beauty veiled in the dark shades of pain. He noted to himself that her son looked no more than a year old…tragic, indeed.

"You loved him very much," he stated softly, his eyes taking her in with great tenderness.

"More than my own life," she replied, her voice steadying a bit as she dabbed her eyes. She drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly through her lips as she kept her gaze on her son—her lifeline.

"He was a lucky man, then," the stranger stated in a firm but compassionate tone, "to have a wife who loved him so deeply and such a handsome son. Many men never know such happiness."

Mary began to shake her head, closing her eyes and ears to his words, for no matter how kind their intent, she knew their content to be false. Lucky? When had Matthew ever been lucky? And she was to blame for that fact.

"Have I said something wrong?" he asked quietly, unsure of her reaction.

"No," she whispered, not daring to meet his eyes, "but you are wrong. My husband was not lucky, he was cursed." But Mary rethought her statement, finally making eye contact with the man as she corrected herself vehemently. "No, not him…never him…me! I am cursed, and my loved tainted him." Her shoulders began to shake and she pressed her eyes tightly together, forcing her tears to remain where they lingered.

"My lady, you cannot mean that," he replied, his voice taking on a note of disbelief as he stared at her with concern. "Where would you ever get an idea such as this?"

"From him!" Mary cried in return, looking at him in desperation. "He told me once that we were cursed and that we could never be together." A bitter laugh suddenly escaped her as she shook her head again. "Perhaps if I had listened then, if we had taken heed of his words…" she could not finish her sentence, staring down at her child in shame. If she and Matthew had never married, there would be no George, and that was simply unthinkable. But the thought never ceased to torture her, nagging her from sleep and demolishing the few moments of happiness she had managed to snatch for herself this past year. If she had been strong enough to accept Matthew's words and stay away from him, he might still be alive.

She suddenly jolted forward as the train began its departure. It would seem as though the intruder would be here for the duration of the trip to York. A shiver of both panic and relief made its way up her spine at the thought.

"You cannot be serious, my lady," the stranger stated with conviction, knowing he was encroaching unasked into very personal territory, but sensing that the woman across from him needed such an intrusion. He took a cleansing breath before he dared to press forward, somehow understanding that the lady sitting near him could easily go on the defensive if she perceived any sign of danger. "I am certain that your late husband meant no such thing, and he would never want you to torture yourself with his words." He then leaned back and studied her a moment before stating, "Besides, you seem a bit old to believe in curses and the like."

It was a challenge. A small, somewhat hesitant one, yet a challenge nonetheless, and it pulled it from her state of utter misery as it simultaneously lit a small spark of intrigue in her mind. Mary paused and stared at the man, finally taking the time to truly make herself aware of the person with whom she was unexpectedly sharing a berth and such personal information. He was tall—even seated, she could easily tell that—with a well-built frame, thick, dark hair and deep brown eyes. A part of her wanted to tell him to leave her alone, that none of this was any of his concern. But it had been she who had spilled forth her fears and feelings to him that she had been desperately trying to keep hidden from anyone, certain they would either censure or pity her for them if they truly understood. And somehow, it felt good to finally talk to someone…someone she would not have to face on a regular basis across the table or in church. Someone she would most likely never see again. Emboldened by that thought, Mary dried her eyes again with the handkerchief, and took up the invisible gauntlet that he had so delicately lain at her feet.

"I only believe in them because I live them," she replied, her voice much steadier than it had been before, although not yet strong. "My husband spoke those words to me after his fiancé died."

Her free hand betrayed her as it began to shake in her lap, causing her to clutch the poor handkerchief as tightly as possible in order to steady it again.

"And just how does the death of an unfortunate woman make you cursed?" he asked, leaning back in his seat and raising an eyebrow in her direction. "It would seem that she was the one who met with unfortunate circumstances, not you."

Mary looked at him, wondering just how he would respond when she answered boldly, "Because she died not long after seeing her intended kiss me."

Her eyes challenged him briefly to judge her, but her moment of courage failed her as soon as it flourished, and she quickly dropped her gaze back down to the face of her son—the one person whose judgment she did not fear. Everyone else in her life seemed to find her lacking in one way or another.

"Please," he continued, once again leaning forward a bit in attempt to draw her eyes back to him, "help me to understand. You are cursed because your husband loved and desired you more than the woman to whom he was engaged? You are cursed because he loved you, married you, and gave you a son?"

"No, you do not understand!" Mary bit back harshly, her eyes taking on a dangerous gleam as they bored into his. "He was everything that was good and decent in this world! He had such strong principles and convictions, and he was kind to everyone, whether they deserved his goodness or not." She paused, closing her eyes in self-reproach as if she could not bear to see herself as she really was. "He believed I was good, that I was a wonderful woman." He shook his head slightly, not following her logic.

"I do not understand…"

"He was wrong! I am not good! I am not the woman he thought I was," Mary spat, rocking her son back and forth as he squirmed at her brief outburst. "I am selfish and vain. I can be unbearably hard on people, whether they deserve it or not. I fall so short of his beliefs in me. Everyone loved him, but very few people love me!"

A small smile touched his lips as he took her in. "I find that difficult to believe, my lady."

His grin infuriated her. How dare he question her in this matter? He knew nothing of Matthew—of her, for that matter! She was forming her sharp retort just as George let out a small whimper. Mary gently shifted her son to rest upon her shoulder, his limp, warm body nestled so sweetly against her own as she whispered her fingers across his soft hair and pressed her lips to his cheek.

"Even upon such a short acquaintance, I believe it a safe wager that your husband was correct in his judgment of your character simply by observing the way you are with your son," the stranger continued, seemingly unfazed by her flash of anger. "Genuine tenderness with children is not a trait that can be conjured at will."

"And are you an expert on children, then?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow in his direction as she gently patted the baby's back and awaited his reply.

He smiled warmly, revealing a set of quite endearing dimples as he answered, "Hardly, my lady, just an observant bystander."

A stab of paralyzing fear coursed through her veins with blinding speed, her heart sinking and fluttering at the same time. Dear God, she had just noticed him as a man. How dare she! Matthew—her life, her love, her very heart—had been gone just one year. She must truly be a shallow and cold as Edith had always believed, so unworthy to have ever been married to her precious husband. A glimmer of self-disgust crossed her face before she mustered the ability to compose her features, a glimmer that had not gone unnoticed by her unplanned companion.

"You are much too hard on yourself, my lady," he ventured forth, now determined to at least carve a chink in this armor of reproach she had donned for herself. Unsure of why that mattered so much to him, he nudged that thought aside and spoke gently. "We none of us are perfect—we all struggle with some vice or another—and it hardly means that we are all cursed. If perfection were required before we were allowed happiness, I am afraid we would all be quite miserable indeed."

"You really do not understand," she whispered, unwilling to look at him again lest she notice just how brown his eyes truly were. "I was not worthy of his love, but he is the one who paid the price."

Mary turned to stare at the window, although she was completely unaware of the landscape outside her compartment. They sat in silence for a few moments as she winced inwardly at her own words. Had she ever been worthy of Matthew? Why had he loved her the way that he did? Mary was suddenly so very weary, so tired of carrying her unvoiced doubts and guilt alone. The man sitting across from her was a stranger, after all, and not someone who could hold her thoughts against her at a later time. She so needed to voice her shame, to verbalize the invisible yoke that so firmly attached itself to her ever since her mother had entered that hospital room one year ago.

She dared to meet his eyes once more and stated flatly, "It was my fault, you see."

He froze for a moment, his unblinking eyes defying hers to look away from him. "What was your fault?" he queried, somehow realizing that she had just spoken something that she had kept tightly guarded for some time. "His death, you mean?"

Mary closed her eyes and nodded twice in assent, suddenly unable to speak. A solitary tear broke free, tracing a lonely trail down her cheek before dropping on to the Teddy Bear.

"I am sure you are mistaken, my lady," he whispered, daring to lean forward until she looked at him again.

"No," Mary replied, her voice quaking, "I am quite certain." Her body began to shake as grief and shame assailed her simultaneously, forcing her eyes shut against the new onslaught. If only she hadn't told him to go and tell the family…had she simply waited a few minutes more…How could she have been so selfish?

"Hmmm," his rich baritone voice suddenly slicing through her reverie, "I see. So you poisoned him, then?"

Mary could not have been more shocked if her companion had suddenly thrown a pail of cold water upon her. Her eyes flew open as she simply stared at him, suddenly realizing that her mouth has hanging open. She snapped it shut quickly, cleared her throat, and voiced, "Excuse me?"

"Well, you said that you were at fault for his death, and as I have always been told that poison is a woman's weapon of choice, it seemed a logical conclusion."

He returned her stare with a maddeningly logical expression. Was he teasing her? Taunting her grief? Mary's anger flashed hot and certain as she pulled herself as far away from him as she possibly do in the small berth and responded, "How dare you? You know absolutely nothing of my husband, our marriage or our life together. For you to even suggest that I would ever think of harming him is ludicrous, and I am highly affronted that you would even consider making such a statement to a woman you do not even know!"

"Have I insulted you, then?" he asked, his voice still reprehensibly calm. "I do apologize, my lady. So you did not kill your husband?"

"No, of course not!" she shot back in defense, taking a deep breath to calm herself. He looked at her in silence, his expression still a mask of calm.

He finally raised his thick eyebrows at her and queried, "Forgive me, but I seem to remember that you claimed culpability in his death. If you did not kill him, just how is it that you are responsible?"

Mary froze, unable to even rock George back and forth as her heart pounded uncomfortably against her ribs. You should go and tell them, you know…her final moments with Matthew played out in her imagination, forever embedded in her memory. Why had she been so eager to see the rest of the family? If she had only been content to be with Matthew and Matthew alone as they breathed in the wonder of their new son, he would have stayed longer. He would have missed that lorry.

"My lady?" he whispered, true concern now showing on his countenance as he leaned towards her. "I did not mean…"

"I asked him to leave." Mary's voice was barely more than a whisper itself, and she clutched George to her chest even tighter, her gaze fixed upon her shoes. "He had just met our baby…he was so happy…and I asked him to leave to tell my family." Her eyes finally met his, and the pain so clearly etched in her features simply broke his heart. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued, "It was a crash, you see. He met a lorry on the way to the house, and…Oh, God!"

A fresh surge of tears assailed her, and the man could stand it no more. He moved across the space separating their seats and sat next to her, daring to put his arm around her shoulders and drawing her face into his shoulder as she wept against him for some time.

"It was not your fault," he finally stated, the timbre of his voice allowing for no argument. Mary drew back to look at him, her red eyes searching his face in earnest.

"But I am the one who asked him to go," she retorted softly. "If I hadn't…"

"If you hadn't, he may well have died by another means," he stated calmly. "Were you driving the lorry or his car?"

"Of course not, but.."

"But nothing," he replied firmly, drawing far enough away from her to look at her directly. "Perhaps he was driving too fast or not paying attention to the road. Perhaps nothing at all could have been done to prevent that accident. But there is one fact that is quite clear, and that is that you have no responsibility in his death."

She simply stared at him, so wanting to believe him yet so fearful of accepting his words. Was it possible that she truly bore no blame? Before she could even begin to grasp the implications of such an idea, he spoke again, his voice full of assurance.

"You must stop blaming yourself, my lady. I am sure that it would be the last thing your husband would have wanted." He boldly drew her closer, allowing her head to once again rest upon his shoulder. "He would want you to move on with your life—to take care of your son and be happy. Any man who loved his wife would want no less for her."

Mary closed her eyes, trying to accept what the man had said. Could he be right? Was she dishonoring Matthew's memory by blaming herself, or was she supposed to carry this shame as her burden to bear? It was all too much…she was unsure of what to think. If she had not asked him…if he had stayed longer….perhaps he would have left on his own accord at the same time… could she have done anything to save him…had she told him just how much she loved him? She closed her eyes, the effort of keeping them open while she pondered such matters suddenly just too much for her. The warmth of his arm and shoulder was so very comforting, and comfort was something she had been craving for months. Her thoughts became quite fuzzy and disjointed with the rocking of the train, drifting in and out of each other as she began to disconnect from her body.

Somehow Mary was swimming in a fog, completely unaware of anything other than the utter contentment that she felt. Without knowing just how she arrived there, she found herself seated on the bench under her favorite tree at Downton. Their tree. Was he here, waiting for her? She was afraid to believe it, but searched for him just the same, although she could inexplicably not move from the bench. She then sensed that a man had quietly sat down beside her—a dark and tall gentleman with a kind smile. His features were blurred—so difficult to discern—and Mary was unsure if she knew him or not. She reached out to touch him, trying desperately to see his face.

"Mary."

The voice was unmistakable, and it warmed every fiber of her being. She looked around, still unable to move but somehow knowing that he was close. The figure beside her leaned in closer, and the features becoming more distinct as the very nearness of him sent shivers throughout her body. His blue eyes smiled at her, that smile that melted her very core, and his hand delicately cupped her cheek. She nearly wept at the sheer beauty of it.

"Mary," he whispered again, his voice a balm to her spirit.

"Matthew," she cried, trying desperately to hold his hand, but unable to grasp it. "I need you, Matthew. I do not know what to do."

He smiled at her again, tilting his head as he had so often done and whispered, "Be happy."

"Matthew…I can't! I do not know how without you." She was losing him…he was fading into the mist surrounding them. "Please, Matthew, tell me what to do!" she begged, reaching out for him once more. How could he leave her when she needed him so much? Did he not know how unbearably difficult life was without him? "Be happy, Mary," he finally answered, his voice in her ear but his face nowhere to be seen.

"Matthew!"

She jerked awake, realizing with a start that she had been asleep for some time. Feeling her arms empty, Mary turned in a panic searching for George, finding him immediately in the arms of the man seated beside her. George was bouncing contentedly on his leg, playing with the stranger's nose as drool slid down the his chubby chin onto the man's lap.

"I am sorry," he stated, smiling apologetically. "You fell asleep, and I did not want him to fall or for you to be disturbed."

"It's alright," she replied, a smile ghosting across her face for the first time since boarding the train. She held out her arms for her baby, and he flew into them, grinning as he babbled, "Ma-ma, ma-ma." She clutched him to her heart, the nearness of his father still seemingly so real that she felt it in her very skin. The man smiled and moved back into the seat across from her, attempting to wipe the drool off of his pants.

"Now I must apologize," she stated softly, smiling in spite of herself as she offered, "Would you like your handkerchief back?"

"No," he replied, his grin deepening the dimples that Mary had noticed earlier. "I told you to keep it, and I never go back on my word. Besides, he is a delightful child."

"Thank you," she whispered, and somehow they both understood that her gratitude covered a great deal more than handkerchiefs and drool. She closed her eyes once more, wanting in many ways to return to that dream but understanding deeply that she was not meant to do so. Mary then opened her eyes to the small world around her—the world in which she lived.

_Be happy…_

"I meant it, you know," he continued, once again interrupting her reverie and looking at her in all seriousness. "Grieving is one thing, but blaming yourself needlessly is quite another. You need to stop torturing yourself, my lady, and live your life."

"You sound like my mother," she responded, quirking her eyebrow in his direction. But a small tremor rippled in her abdomen and hastily traveled up her spine at his assertion.

"Then she is a very wise woman," he replied, smiling in earnest. "And I am sure that she has your best interests at heart."

The train began to slow, and Mary looked out the window in surprise.

"Heavens, how long was I asleep?" she asked, turning her astonished eyes back to her companion as she bounced George on her lap.

"Long enough for us to have reached York," he answered, quickly catching the stuffed bear that George had just dropped.

"Is York your final destination?" Mary asked, unsure if she wanted to be separated from him or not. There was something so comforting yet dangerous about his presence. At the moment, she was unsure which she craved more.

"It is for today," he answered, deftly catching the bear a second time before handing it back to George. "I have a favorite aunt who resides there. I am shamefully overdue a visit with her."

"Ah," Mary stated, half-hoping he would introduce himself yet thoroughly enjoying the freedom of anonymity. "It's a game now, you know."

He eyed her quizzically and a bit unnervingly until she continued, "He'll just drop it again."

"It's alright," he smiled, fetching the bear yet again just as Mary had predicted. "Sometimes things of importance need to be repeated frequently."

She looked at him purposely as he gazed back at her, the full meaning of his words hanging between them. The train slowed to a stop, and he asked, "Are you disembarking in York, as well?"

"Yes, but only to transfer trains," she replied, gathering up George as her companion retrieved her bag.

"Please, allow me to see you safely to your next train, then" he cut in, promptly hushing her words of protest before they could even be formed. Mary looked at him again, relishing the peacefulness in her spirit she had not felt in a year. Her time of grieving was not over, but maybe—just maybe—she could mourn her husband without despising herself. She knew that her travelling companion had just done her a great service, although she was not exactly sure how exactly he had engineered such a feat.

"Alright," she consented as he stepped out of the compartment, assisting her and George from the train. He followed her down the platform to the train that would carry her home, placing her bags in her berth.

"So you are travelling on to Rippon, then?" he asked, clearly curious. "Is that your home?"

"No, but its close," she replied, still unsure if she wanted him to know any more details about her or not. It was odd—in some ways, he now knew more about her than anyone else, even her own family members, yet he did not even know her name. And there was a part of her that wanted to know more about him—his name, his home, his family-but it was safer to know nothing. No—it was better this way. She was not yet ready to take any chances.

He stood immobile for a moment, taking her in and seeming to realize exactly what she was thinking. His stare was a bit unnerving, finally causing Mary to drop her eyes. Taking his cue, he took her hand and kissed it briefly.

"I wish you safe travels, my lady," he stated. Mary looked up at him again and noticed with a small measure of alarm that he had not yet released her hand. "Perhaps our paths shall cross again."

"Perhaps they shall," Mary replied, both relieved and slightly disappointed when he let go of her hand and stepped back. She swallowed quickly, her throat suddenly parched as she wondered if they would actually meet another day.

"Well, good-bye, then," he smiled, flashing George a smile as he caught the poor Teddy one last time.

"Good-bye," Mary returned, watching him intently as he turned and walked away from the station, an older man carrying his bags falling in step behind him. She sat back, snuggled her son close as she breathed in his precious scent.

_Be happy._

Was it possible to be happy without Matthew? She had been convinced that his death had left her broken and completely beyond repair. Yet some time in the company of a certain stranger had strangely shown her that maybe, just maybe, she could begin to fit the shards of her life back together. Perhaps she could heal, move forward and live her life.

_You've lived your life, and I've lived mine._

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, relishing his memory and craving his presence. But when she dared to open her eyes again knowing that he was not there, she was stunned to feel the first stirrings of hope along with the familiar weight of pain.

"It's going to be alright, Georgie," she whispered to her child, kissing the top of his head as the train began to move towards Downton—towards home. And for the first time in a year, she actually believed it just might be. Well, she thought with a small pulse of satisfaction and gratitude, the day had not been a complete disaster after all. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an encounter with a stranger on a train, Mary returns home to face her family.

Disembarking the train in Rippon was proving to be a bit more difficult as George was now quite awake and doing his best to break free of the confinement of his mother's arms.

"Now that is enough," Mary scolded wondering just who taught children the horrible trick of suddenly going limp.

Finding it nearly impossible to keep him in her arms and reach for her bags, she was vastly relieved to hear a warm, familiar voice from behind her.

"You'd best listen to your mother, young man," Tom smiled as he held out his arms towards his nephew, giving him a toss in the air after the boys flew into his arms. "Enough is enough."

George squealed in delight as he went airborne another time, clapping his hands as he babbled, "Gin! Gin!"

"One more time, then," Tom complied, throwing him just high enough to make Mary's heart skip a beat.

"One day you will throw him too high," she stated calmly, raising an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, "and you'll have to contend with me."

"Perish the thought!" he exclaimed with a laugh as they began to make their way to the car. "And don't give me the 'Lady Mary' look. I don't fall for it anymore, but it does give me the shivers just the same."

"I only give you that look when you deserve it, dearest brother," Mary retorted quickly, a small grin tugging at the side of her mouth. "After all, someone has to keep you in line."

"Now you sound like your grandmother," Tom cracked, opening the door for Mary as the porter put her bags in the car. He handed George back to his mother, tousling his hair and making the boys laugh again. "You love your favorite uncle, now don't you, Georgie?" Tom asked before sliding in on the other side of the car behind the wheel.

"He doesn't have much choice in the matter, seeing as you are his only uncle," Mary quipped, settling the child in her lap as Tom started the car.

"I've never paid much attention to technicalities," Tom retorted, glancing over his shoulder at the pair of them.

"That is an understatement," Mary replied dryly causing her brother-in-law to turn around and face her before beginning their journey home.

"Well, it's only my opinion, dearest sister, but it certainly looks and sounds as if this day has done you a world of good," Tom stated, nodding his head in approval.

"And what makes you say that?" Mary questioned, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"You," Tom smiled, looking her squarely in the eye. "You've got some of your spirit back, and I for one am certainly glad to see it."

She quite suddenly had nothing to say and sat perfectly still, gazing at him thoughtfully before finally replying, "I'm not sure, Tom." She took a deep breath and continued, "I know I still have a long way to go, but I do feel lighter than I have since…"

"You don't have to say it," he cut it, observing her struggle to form the words that still tore at her heart. "I understand—perfectly."

"I know you do," Mary replied gratefully. In many ways she was thankful to have Tom so close. Their shared losses had bound them together and forged an odd kinship that had been instrumental in pulling her through the past year. Yet how could she be thankful for his understanding of her pain when it meant the loss of her sister? Mary was simply too tired from the day's events to ponder such intricacies at the moment, so she chose to relax a few minutes in the company of her dearest friend. How odd that such a designation would now belong to her former chauffeur.

"I must say that I'm really proud of the way you took charge of your day," Tom continued as they turned on the road to Downton. "I know it wasn't easy for you to challenge the family like that."

"No, it wasn't" Mary agreed, "But I am glad we did it." She hesitated a moment before braving her next question. "Has Papa gone on about it terribly today?"

"He has been surprisingly silent on the subject, actually. He even admitted to me at breakfast that perhaps this outing was for the best." Tom answered, but the tone of his voice suggested to Mary that something had been left unsaid.

"What is it, Tom? What are you not telling me?" Mary insisted, an uneasiness beginning to stir in her stomach.

"What makes you think I'm keeping something from you?" he asked, already knowing that she would not let the issue drop.

"Because you are a terrible liar, Tom Branson," she replied hastily, "and you are absolutely horrible at keeping secrets."

"Now you're wrong there," he insisted. "I can keep a secret—just not when they involve doing something behind someone's back."

Oh, dear, there was indeed something in the works of which she knew nothing. Knowing her family as she did, Mary could already assume that they would have the best of intentions, but their idea would more than likely set her teeth on edge.

"Alright, Tom," she stated flatly, "You know that you must now tell me everything."

"Yes, I do," Tom answered, glancing back at her in the rear-view mirror. "That's actually why I volunteered to come and meet you at the station. I figured that this would be the perfect opportunity for me to give you a bit of a warning."

"A warning," she repeated, her voice deceptively calm, "Oh, dear. It must be serious, indeed."

Mary's insides were now churning, wondering just what her parents and grandmother could have concocted without her knowledge. Surely they had not invited a potential suitor to Downton? It was much too soon for that! Warm bile pushed its way up her throat as she contemplated that possibility. She knew that she did not yet have the strength to ward off unwanted advances without pain constantly piercing her heart as she would undoubtedly compare every man to Matthew. Mary truly did not believe that she would ever be able to love again, and quite honestly she was fairly certain that she did not want to do so. With love came pain—a pain that she absolutely knew would destroy her if she ever had to walk through it again. No—it was much more prudent to remain distant and guard her heart. Besides, there would never be a man to whom she felt such an attraction as she did to her Matthew—never!

Unwittingly, a pair of beguiling dimples and warm, brown eyes flashed in her mind, making her shut her eyes and shake her head in denial of such thoughts. No. Suitors had no place in her life, or in George's for that matter. And thankfully now that the question of George's inheritance had been settled, Mary did not need a man in her life to secure their future. No—she had no need for anyone save her family.

"Are you feeling alright?" Tom asked, concerned as he noticed the pallor of her face when he glanced at her in the mirror again. "Do I need to pull over, Mary?"

"No! No—I am very well," she replied, knowing that she could not tell even Tom the thoughts that had just flashed through her mind. He had been a widower more than a year longer than Mary a widow, yet he had never even noticed another woman—at least not to Mary's knowledge. What would he think of her if she told him that she had actually thought a strange man attractive today—even if only for a few minutes? Besides, she wasn't ready to even admit to herself that she had thought another man handsome. How could she possibly admit it to Tom?

Rather than confessing her doubts, Mary inquired, "Just what is my family planning, Tom? Am I going to be completely horrified?"

"Probably," Tom admitted, chuckling to himself, "but it's really not as bad as it could be."

"Oh, for God's sake, would you just tell me?" she finally snapped, making her brother-in-law laugh in earnest at her impatience.

"Alright," he acquiesced, adding with a grin, "but you must promise not to give me away. I'll deny ever telling you if you do."

"Done," Mary stated without hesitation, now nearly beside herself with dread and anticipation of what was awaiting her at Downton.

"Well," Tom began, already dreading her reaction, "your parents have been really worried about you. Your mother and grandmother are convinced that you are depressed and have decided that it is time for them to take some sort of action." He paused a moment, thinking of the best way to phrase the rest of what he had to tell her.

"And," Mary interrupted, quickly tiring of his hesitation, no matter how well-intentioned.

"And…they have decided to throw a house party in your and George's honor," Tom finished, glad to have the worst of it out in the open.

"A house party? Now? Have they lost their minds?" The tone of Mary's voice left no doubt as to the extent of her anger.

Tom drew a deep breath and stated, "I figured you'd be mad."

"You figured right," Mary put it, still reeling from the news. "And just when is this house party to take place? How much time do I have to devise some sort of plan to avoid it?"

Tom chuckled at her statement, shaking his head slightly before replying. "Only a few days—I believe they are due to arrive on Friday."

"What?" Mary was paralyzed with the news momentarily, understanding that there was very little likelihood of her being able to get out of the proceedings now. "How long have you known about this, Thomas Branson?"

"Not long at all," he replied quickly, knowing how her anger would burn if she suspected that she had been kept in the dark by him. He of all people understood her pain and would never try to deceive her. "Your mother informed me of their plans this morning."

"Before or after I left for London?" Mary inquired, her ire still prickling under her skin.

"After," he admitted a bit sheepishly. "I don't think your parents trusted that I wouldn't tell you once I knew. They wanted to make sure that I wouldn't give everything away…which of course, I just have." His honesty and concern for her touched her heart, suddenly washing over Mary like a balm.

"Thank you for watching out for me, Tom," she stated before sighing deeply. "I am not sure what I would do without you."

"Hey—we take care of each other," Tom interjected, smiling at her in the mirror. "Besides—your parents just might be right about this."

"What?" Mary interjected, not quite believing that Tom would side with her family in this matter. "You cannot be serious!"

"And why not?" he replied with a shrug. "I know you don't feel like entertaining, but having a bunch of people around might just be good for you. It could help take your mind off things…just for a few days."

"And is your mind ever off things?" she shot back, suddenly feeling very betrayed and wanting to hurt him for not being on her side. "Have you forgotten my sister already?"

At this statement, Tom looked around and gingerly pulled the car to the side of the road. He stopped the engine and turned around so he could face her squarely and look her in the eye.

"I'll never forget her, and you know that well," Tom replied gently, understanding the pain from where her sharp barbs came. "But, actually, yes—there are now times when I don't think about Sybil. At first, it terrified me and made me feel so guilty—like I was being untrue to her memory." He paused, looking out towards the sun setting behind a grassy field momentarily before softly stating, "But someone helped me realize that being able to move on doesn't mean I loved Sybil any less."

"Who?" Mary wondered, her pulse pounding in her ears as the conversation she had had earlier on the train began to replay in her mind.

"Your mother," Tom answered, smiling at the expression of disbelief that overtook Mary's face. "She's a very wise and loving woman, you know. She caught me crying in the garden one afternoon when I was feeling so guilty. I thought she might give me an ear-full when I confessed that I was actually feeling happier and more at peace with my life and not dwelling on losing Sybil as much as I had been."

"What did she say?" Mary asked, needing to know just what her mother had said to her son-in-law.

"She said that she was happy to hear it, that I shouldn't be living in the shadows anymore. She said that she still missed her deeply, too, but that Sybil wouldn't want us to dwell on the past." He paused again, stating his next words very carefully. "She said that Sybil would want me and Sybbie to move forward and be happy." Tom smiled, even as a few tears welled in his eyes and his voice cracked slightly. "I'll love your sister until the day that I die, Mary, and that's a fact. But your mother was right. It would be wrong of me to live my life in the past—wrong for my daughter and everyone else around me. Sybil wouldn't want that. She would want us to be happy."

_Be happy._

A shiver crawled up her spine as her stomach began to flutter again. Mary felt as if her heart was going to pound out of her chest as she drew a deep breath trying to settle her nerves.

_Your husband would want you to move on with your life—to take care of your son and be happy. Any man who loved his wife would want no less for her._

Mary cast her eyes down to her son, unable to meet Tom's eyes as those words played in her memory—the words of the man on the train.

"What if I'm not ready to move on, Tom?" she asked hesitantly, her voice so quiet that Tom barely heard her. "What if I never am?"

"Then you're not," he answered gently, smiling at her warmly as she finally met his eyes again. "But one day you will be, and I for one will be glad for it." He then reached back and softly laid a hand on her shoulder before concluding, "And so would Matthew."

Dear God—another tear? Would she never be rid of them this day? Mary quickly wiped it away, absolutely determined that no one at Downton would see her cry for the rest of the day. This was George's birthday—a celebration of his life—and she was resolute that what was left of this day would be completely his. He deserved that, and so much more.

"Let's go home, Tom, before it gets dark and everyone worries," Mary breathed, looking back up at her brother-in-law with a look of steely determination that he recognized all too well. He nodded, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze that released a small smile from her.

"Alright, then," he answered, turning back around and starting the engine. "Let's go."

The remainder of their short trip passed in a friendly yet charged silence. Mary was unsure of just how to greet her parents when they arrived home. Should she confront them concerning the house party? No—that would give Tom away entirely, and she had promised him that she would not do so. Should she feign a headache and go up to bed immediately? No—that would simply ruin the rest of George's birthday and convince her family that her London outing had been a terrible mistake. Her best option seemed to be to pretend ignorance over the entire thing and wait until one of them dared to tell her about it. Then she could unleash all of her ire over this ludicrous idea and beg them to reconsider. Of course, this could have been all Granny's doing, and in that case, resistance was futile. It was probably futile already, Mary admitted to herself, knowing just how soon the guests were now due to arrive. And as frustrated as she was over the very idea of a house party to cheer her up, she would not want to disappear and embarrass her parents. She wondered with a small degree of panic just who was supposed to attend, praying fervently that any gentleman in attendance would either be married or much too old to be attracted to the thought of being attached to the mother of a toddler. But somehow, she knew better. There would be at least one or two quite eligible bachelors in the party—Mama and Granny would see to that.

Poor chaps—they could not know just how meaningless their charms would be to her. Romance was the furthest thing from her mind, and she was determined to keep it that way.

Carson—of course! Carson could tell her what guests would be in attendance. Mary wondered fleetingly why he would have withheld information about the house party itself from her, but she was certain that her parents had forbidden him to tell her. Anna had probably faced the same predicament, although she was much less likely to hear the gossip now that she and Bates lived out of the Abbey itself. One of them could find out the information she needed so that she could arm herself accordingly. Having a plan made Mary feel immensely better. She kissed George's forehead as the car pulled up to the house, the entire family and staff awaiting their arrival.

"Welcome home, my love," Mary whispered to her son who began to clap his hands in delight at the sight of his doting grandparents.

Cora met them at the car, unable to stand not having the child in her arms one moment more as she exclaimed, "There is my sweet birthday boy! Have you had a good day with your mother?"

"We've had an excellent day, thank you," Mary replied as Tom helped her from the car. "George enjoyed London very much."

"I'm glad to hear it," Robert stated happily, relieved to have the two of them home after their day in the city. It unnerved him to have them away for too long, especially when he thought of his daughter being unguarded in a place like London. After losing Sybil and Matthew so shockingly, he found himself even more protective of his wife, daughters and grandchildren than he had been before. He often caught himself just staring at them to make sure that they were alright.

"And did you enjoy it, too?" Cora asked, pulling her gaze away from George long enough to attempt to discern her daughter's state of mind.

"Very much," Mary replied, her face a well-practiced mask of politeness. "George and I went to the park, fed the ducks, did some shopping and ate ice cream."

"He seems very much awake for a lad who has had such an eventful day," Robert remarked, gently rubbing his grandson's brown hair as Cora drew close to him.

"He slept well on the train," Mary replied, quite unwilling to discuss anything else about that leg of the journey with anyone.

"You look well, too, dear," Cora interjected happily as they all made their way inside the great hall. "The time in London must have done you some good, after all."

Robert sent his wife a pointed look which she returned with a small smile. They had argued over this issue yet again last night after everyone had retired for bed, he actually wanting to take the train with Mary and George to London. Cora had gently yet insistently reminded him that these were Mary's wishes and that they needed to stand with her on this. George's birthday was difficult enough on their daughter without the strain of disagreement hovering over her.

"Yes, it was quite nice," Mary agreed, using every ounce of self-restraint she had to prevent herself from questioning them about the house party on the spot. "What is it, Mama?" she asked, her mother's direct gaze unnerving her a bit.

"You have some color in your cheeks," Cora smiled as she handed George over to Nanny for his bath and a change of clothes. "I am happy to see it."

"That's from the cool evening air," Mary returned, knowing it was unsafe to discuss anything else. "I suppose I should go and change for dinner."

"Yes," Cora replied, nodding slightly, still looking at her daughter in a quizzical manner. "I believe that Anna is upstairs waiting for you. I insisted that she refrain from coming out to meet you and to actually sit with her feet propped up for a few minutes."

"Thank you for that," Mary smiled. "She does need to take it easy when she is so close to her time, and she rarely listens to me when I tell her so."

Cora tried to stifle a small laugh as the two ladies began to climb the stairs, causing Mary to look to her mother and ask,

"And just what is so funny, Mama?"

"Oh, nothing," Cora answered, smiling at Mary. "I just seem to remember when Anna was the one telling you to take it easy. Just how well did you listen to her advice?"

"Not well at all, I'm afraid," Mary replied, stopping at the top of the staircase to look at her mother, her face suddenly ashen.

"What is it, dear?" Cora asked, reaching a hand out to her daughter's cheek in concern.

"It's just that, if I had listened better, to Anna, to Papa, to Carson," Mary began, pausing as she could suddenly not voice Matthew's name. "If I had never gone to Scotland, perhaps the labor would not have started so early. Perhaps he would not have…he might still be…"

"Hush, now," Cora soothed, placing her hands on Mary's shoulders and drawing her close. "What if's are absolutely pointless, Mary. Dwelling on things you cannot change is useless. When you do that, you are just punishing yourself needlessly. Believe me—I know."

Mary looked into her mother's eyes and actually understood that she did know. Cora had tormented herself with what if's after Sybil had died, and Mary suddenly wondered if her mother had done the same after losing her unborn son.

_You need to stop torturing yourself, my lady, and live your life._

Mary shivered as his words ran through her mind yet again.

"Come, my dear, you are cold," Cora interjected, gently directing her eldest towards her bedroom. "Let's get you warmed up and changed as quickly as possible. I understand that Mrs. Patmore has prepared quite a treat for our George's first birthday dinner."

"Has she?" Mary queried, entering her bedroom. "That will be a treat indeed, although he has already had ice cream today."

"Mary—you only have your first birthday once," Cora replied, giving Mary the same pout that she had so often witnessed her mother giving to her father. Mary smiled to herself as she realized just how powerful that look really was. Her mother almost always got her way when she employed it.

"True, but tooth decay lasts a lifetime," Mary retorted, her mother simply shaking her head.

"Oh, please. George only has four teeth," Cora stated, shaking her head at her daughter's stubbornness. "And they are his baby teeth, at that!"

Mary's response was a quirked eyebrow as they reached her door. Anna stood as quickly as she was able as the two women entered the room, her rounded belly making hasty movements quite difficult.

"Do sit down, Anna," Mary stated quickly. "It's quite alright, isn't it, Mama?"

"No, mi'lady," Anna responded quickly, walking towards Mary as gracefully as she could. "I've been sitting for quite some time at your mother's insistence, so I'm feeling quite rested now."

"I'm glad to hear it," Cora replied, smiling sweetly at her.

"Let's keep it simple, Anna," Mary began as Anna began to help her undress. "My hair should still be fine from the style you gave me this morning, and I just don't feel like a fuss today. I'm too tired for that."

"Whatever you wish, mi'lady," Anna replied, casting Mary a pointed glance before she continued. "As long as you're not saying that just for my sake."

"Of course not," Mary retorted, attempting to look as disinterested as possible. She cast one look at Anna and could easily tell that her dear lady's maid was not buying her act at all. "And even if I were, it hardly matters. I said that I don't feel like a fuss tonight, and I meant it."

Anna smiled at this, moving quite deftly for a pregnant woman as she helped Mary change quickly out of her black day suit.

"You know, Mary," Cora interjected softly, quite unsure of her daughter's upcoming response, "you are now allowed to wear something besides black."

Dear God—there it was! A flash of pain that pierced her heart so fiercely that Mary had to shut her eyes to everything around her, retreating quickly into the shell of a woman she had been for this entire year.

"I am still in mourning, Mama," she finally managed to state, her voice a husky whisper as she fought desperately to contain her emotions. "A date on a calendar does not suddenly make things alright."

"Nor does wearing a certain color over another mean that you feel Matthew's loss any more or less, Mary," Cora proceeded gently, walking towards the younger woman and placing a hand on her arm as Anna took a step back.

"Maybe not, but it does express how I feel," Mary shot back, her ire rising at the very suggestion that she should don a happy colored frock—on today of all days!

Today… Dear God, of course! A happy frock—for George's birthday. Sudden understanding flashed in Mary's eyes as she gazed at her mother, grasping Cora's arm for support as her legs felt suddenly weak.

"It is his birthday, Mary, and you are his mother," Cora quietly continued. "Besides, no one will be dining with us tonight except for Isobel, Dr. Clarkson and your grandmother. They will all understand that you are still mourning Matthew, even if you dress happily for your son." Cora smiled again, taking her daughter's hands in her own as she stated, "Isobel told me yesterday that she was determined to wear something cheerful tonight, so there will be no judgment on her part. And you know that we are all in your corner." Cora took a deep breath, laid one hand gently on Mary's cheek, and breathed, "And Matthew would approve."

Her mother's final statement had been delivered so delicately that Mary half-wondered if she had not imagined it. Would Matthew approve? Her chest began to constrict as she struggled to regain some control of her feelings.

_One day you will be ready to move on, and I for one will be glad for it…and so would Matthew._

Tom's words swirled around her, mixing with those of her mother in some sort of contorted dance in her mind. She could not speak, nodding her head in silent agreement as tears once again began to fall. Anna returned a moment later with a stunning sky blue dress, holding it up for Mary's approval.

"What do you think of this one, mi'lady?" she asked softly, concern for her lady and friend quite evident in her gaze. "Blue for sweet George?"

Blue—the same vivid blue as Matthew's eyes…as George's eyes. Mary caught her breath, wiped away her tears, and nodded. "That will do, Anna. It will do quite well for tonight."

"And it will look lovely on you," Cora concluded, "especially with this necklace to go with it."

"What is this?" Mary asked hesitantly, stepping forward and taking the piece of jewelry in her hands. The necklace was simple, yet stunning, a silver chain adorned with small diamonds and sapphires.

"It's a gift from your father and me," Cora answered, smiling at Mary's surprised glance. "We felt like George wasn't the only one who deserved a present today."

Anna quietly clasped the necklace around Mary's throat, and she quickly stole a glance in the mirror. The woman looking back at her almost did not seem real—a stranger in her body, the image of a woman she used to know. Was this too much—on this night of all nights? Last year at this time, she could not even speak. The simple acts of drawing breath and formulating words had been overwhelming. When she closed her eyes, she was suddenly back in that hospital room, holding her precious baby and singing to him when her mother walked into the room.

Oh, God…please help me!

_Be happy, Mary._

The words washed over her so suddenly that the sensation was physical. Mary quickly looked around the room—her bedroom, not the hospital—and caught her breath before she looked into the eyes of Anna and her mother.

"Are you alright, mi'lady," Anna asked hesitantly, looking Mary directly in the eye. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," Mary replied, "there is nothing."

Anna made quick work of touching up Mary's hair, and Cora gave her resounding approval at the results.

"Thank you, Anna," Mary stated, smiling up at the young woman whose support and friendship had become so vital to her over the years. "You should go home now and rest."

"I shall do so, mi'lady," Anna replied as she took her leave, turning to Mary once again at the door. "But please let me know if I can do anything else to help."

"I shall," Mary answered, fully knowing that the words she had just uttered were meaningless. There was nothing anyone could do for her right now. This journey she must face was a solitary one. Cora walked up behind her daughter, placing a hand on her shoulder as if in response to Mary's thoughts.

"You don't have to do this by yourself, Mary. We are all in your corner, and we love you very much."

"I know," Mary began, her voice catching in her throat. "But you are not Matthew."

"No, we're not Matthew," Cora admitted, sitting down beside her daughter on the bench. "And you aren't Sybil. Neither is Edith, your father or precious Sybbie. But you all helped me get through the worst of the pain when we lost her. Let us do the same for you, Mary."

She sat utterly frozen, her mind suddenly numb at the uncertainty of her feelings. The day had been such a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, and she was quite exhausted from it. She seemed to be hearing the same thoughts from so many different sources.

_Sometimes things of importance need to be repeated frequently._

Her stomach fluttered lightly as she tried to let it all in.

_Everyone loved Matthew, but very few people love me_.

How wrong she had been, and somehow the man on the train had known it. She was loved, recognizing the depth of her mother's feelings in a new light. Mary now understood what it was like to love your own child, and as she dared to slightly lift the veil that had been covering her heart for the past year, the ferocity of her parent's love astounded her. But she had to be willing to accept that love and take it in to truly heal. Mary gently clasped her mother's hands in her own and met her gaze sincerely.

"I shall try, Mama. I cannot make any promises, but I shall try."

"That's my girl," Cora beamed, standing and holding out her hand to her daughter. "Come now. Let's go get this grandson of mine and celebrate his birthday together."

Mary stood, following her mother to the door and pausing momentarily to look back.

"Oh," Cora cut in, pulling Mary from her reverie. "Don't even act as if you don't know about the house party. I know that Tom told you."

"How did you know?" Mary asked quickly, a spark of anger and surprise suddenly chasing away the melancholy in her soul.

"Why do you think I arranged for Tom to pick you up at the train station?" Cora inquired, a much too innocent expression donning her mother's face for Mary's liking.

"I thought he volunteered to bring me home," Mary retorted, still confused by this turn of events.

Cora smiled indulgently at her firstborn before answering, "He volunteered after I told him about the party and then mentioned that someone should pick you up this evening. You know Tom can't keep a secret, Mary. Why would I tell him such things if I didn't want you to know about them?"

Cora turned and walked to the nursery, disappearing before Mary could ask any more questions. Her mother was wilier than Mary ever gave her credit for being, a fact which both intrigued and annoyed her at the moment. Letting out a sigh, she then followed her mother's lead to her son's nursery, wondering just what other surprises the evening might have in store. Quite suddenly, birthday dinner with the family did not seem quite so daunting a task.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George's birthday dinner leads to the unveiling of the House Party Guests and suspicions that Mary is keeping a secret.

She should have suspected the reaction she would receive when she descended the stairs and berated herself for not steeling her mind for such a response. But Mary's thoughts had been so distracted throughout the day, leaving her feeling utterly defenseless and exposed as she, her mother and George approached the rest of their family awaiting them in the main hall.

The silence that surrounded her was deafening, but their stares spoke volumes. It was finally Isobel who rent the mute curtain, walking up to her daughter-in-law, clasping her hands in hers as she stated, "My dear girl, you look simply stunning."

"As do you," Mary managed, her voice unsteady as she took in Matthew's mother, seeing in her eyes their shared grief that had somehow bound them closely. "Mama told me that you had something special picked out to wear tonight."

Isobel smiled, her dark eyes misty but strong.

"I had to wear something cheerful for our George's birthday, and I thought yellow might just do the trick." she stated, nodding her head in approval at Mary. "Black just would not do for such an occasion."

Something cheerful for George's birthday...if only that cheerfulness did not have to compete with so many unspoken memories hovering around them like specters in a great hall. Mary could almost see them, feeling suddenly very cold as she looked towards her son to draw her back to the land of the living.

"I agree completely," Robert joined in, nearing Mary with a smile that nearly melted her heart. "You cannot know just how happy it makes me to see you looking so well, Mary."

"Heavens, it's just a dress," Mary replied, unable to say much more as she yet again had to quell tears forming against her will.

"I hardly think so," Isobel replied, giving her hand a squeeze as she leaned in towards Mary, whispering, "Well done, Mary. I'm so proud of you."

She had not realized just how much Isobel's approval had meant to her until she felt a current of relief wash quickly through her veins at older woman's approbation. Mary squeezed her hand in response, touching her forehead to her mother-in-laws and whispering, "Thank you."

Dear Lord, her hands were shaking…again. One tear broke free as she and Isobel drew apart from each other, sharing so many things left unspoken. Isobel then took Dr. Clarkson's arm as Mary took Tom's free one. Sybbie clapped gleefully in his other, trying desperately to reach out and grab Mary's necklace. Mary took the little girls hand in hers, placing a small kiss on her hand.

"Sweet Sybbie," she breathed, always taken slightly aback at just how much the girl resembled her mother. "You look beautiful this evening, my sweet."

"Doesn't she, though," Cora replied, overhearing their conversation. "I told you that dress was perfect for her, Tom."

Mary smiled at her poor brother-in-law's expression, knowing he would never have a voice in how his daughter was dressed now that they were rooted firmly at Downton. Her mother had taken on that role with delight, revealing to Mary just how much Mama had missed having a little girl under foot to love and spoil. They all made their way to the Dining Room, Violet hanging back a bit until Mary walked up beside her.

"You do look well, my dear," Granny agreed, speaking in a hushed tone for her granddaughter's ears only. "Although I must admit to being pleasantly surprised that your mother actually convinced you to end your time of mourning."

"I haven't ended anything, Granny," Mary replied, breathing deeply to regain her composure. "I just agreed with Mama that perhaps it was a good idea to put away the black for George's birthday."

"Quite right," Violet nodded as they made their way to the dining table. "But it is a change that suits you, Mary…one I believe you should consider making permanent."

Mary merely nodded and smiled, knowing that this was an argument she did not have the desire or strength to fight right now. This was George's evening—not hers. She only wished that others would focus upon her less and her son more. Her wish was quickly granted as George was seated beside her in his wooden high chair, something quite unusual for him as he normally took his meals in the nursery. He looked around and seemed to find this new arrangement quite suitable, at least for the moment. Mary knew that he would not be content confined to the chair for long, and a small grin actually tugged at her mouth as she envisioned Papa's reaction when he began to play with his food.

"What a handsome birthday boy we have here," Isobel beamed, kissing her grandson's dark head before taking her seat across the table from him. George held his arms out to her, already desiring to be out of his seat and in someone's lap. Mary handed him a small toy rabbit that George commenced to pounding on the wooden tray of his seat. Sybbie clapped in delight, only encouraging the boy's noisemaking.

"Oh, my" Violet cried, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her coiffure. "Is there no way to muffle the racket? Could we possibly put a pillow on top or something?"

"Oh, come now, it's his birthday," Cora put in, smiling indulgently at her grandson and looking to her husband for support.

"Quite right," Robert replied, attempting to smile and nod even though it was painfully obvious that the presence of small children at the dinner table was completely out of his realm of comfort.

"He'll be fine once he has something to chew on," Mary stated, smiling reassuringly at her father.

"Carson—can you fetch him a piece of bread or something?" Violet interjected, somehow knowing that the butler would know exactly what to do.

"Of course, my lady," Carson replied smoothly. "I'm sure that Mrs. Patmore will have just the thing for our little lord. I shall procure something for our young lady, as well."

Carson could not resist smiling indulgently at George and Sybbie as Mary looked up to him with profound gratitude. He did treat George as if he were his own grandson at times, although he would never admit to it if anyone questioned him on the matter.

"It's so good to see you smiling," Tom offered, leaning towards her in a conspiratorial manner. "I wasn't sure if you'd be able to tonight or not."

"I was just envisioning Carson's face once George decides to throw his peas across the table," she replied, making her brother-in-law smile back at her in earnest.

"Carson's an old softie as far as the children are concerned," Tom replied, chuckling softly. "I remember when Sybbie got a hold of the paint and actually tried to redecorate the nursery a few weeks ago. I was sure that he'd be so upset, but he praised her for her artistic abilities."

"That doesn't surprise me," Mary confided, smiling at a memory. "He told me the same thing when I attempted to paint Mama's tulips when I was five."

Tom quickly covered his laugh with his napkin, shaking his head at the thought. "I would have never guessed it of him when I first arrived here, you know. No one downstairs would ever accuse the man of being soft."

"Well, we all have our soft spots," she answered, turning her eyes back to her son as he continued to play with his rabbit.

"That we do," he replied, touching his daughter's dark curls with affection.

"So did you enjoy your time in London today?" Isobel asked, looking at Mary with curiosity.

"I did, thank you," she replied, smiling as brightly as she could. "George and I had quite the adventure."

"Did you see any ducks? I know they are quite his favorite," Isobel continued, her smile genuine but looking somewhat strained to Mary's eyes.

"Of course," Mary answered, feeling a measure of relief as Carson set down some crackers on George's tray. "How could we take in London without seeing the ducks?"

"Mary tells me that George also tried his first ice cream today," Cora stated, making a sweet face a Sybbie when she began to play with her napkin.

"And how did that go?" Robert asked, looking a bit concerned as the poor napkin fell to the floor.

"He loved it, of course," Mary replied, anticipating George's next move as he dropped the rabbit off the side of the tray.

"Nice catch," Tom stated as he laid Sybbie's napkin discreetly on his lap beside his own.

"It's become his new favorite game," Mary replied, handing the rabbit secretly to Carson who had stepped up quietly behind her. "You should have seen the poor teddy on the train. If it hadn't been for…"

Mary cut herself off quickly, realizing just how much she had nearly given away. The train ride was still much too personal to share with anyone—a small treasure she was determined to keep to herself for the moment. But her abrupt silence had cause all eyes to be fixed upon her as they awaited the rest of her sentence.

"If it hadn't been for whom?" Violet voiced expectantly, giving her granddaughter a look which demanded an answer.

"The porter," Mary replied, forcing herself to smile to cover up the quiet turmoil that was so blasted unsettling. "He had to retrieve the poor thing numerous times before we boarded the train."

"It's a wonder he was able to do so with all of the bags he was carrying," Cora cut it, looking at her daughter with interest. "You made quite a few purchases in London today, Mary."

"My, my," Violet chuckled, sitting up a bit taller, "did this miraculous porter have multiple hands? How did he manage such a feat?"

Mary's eyes widened slightly in alarm, trying her best to formulate an answer that would satisfy everyone and close the matter entirely. Sensing the young woman's discomfort, Isobel quickly intercepted the conversation, asking, "Oh—what did you find in London, Mary? Any nice gifts for George?"

"Yes," Mary replied, thankful beyond words for Isobel's assistance. "We found a wooden duck, actually. One with a string attached that he can pull behind him once he starts walking."

"I daresay that was a good choice," Robert nodded. "Rosamund and I used to argue over who would get to feed the ducks each afternoon. She always used to sneak down into the kitchen and try to sneak extra breadcrumbs so that she would have more to feed them than I would."

"So that's where all of those crumbs on the floor came from," Violet pondered. "I always wondered if we had mice milling about that no one ever caught."

As the dinner conversation continued without her, Mary quietly leaned over to Tom and whispered, "Mama is on to you, you know."

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking truly confused.

"She set you up today," Mary answered, nearly laughing at his incredulous look. "She knew that you wouldn't be able to keep a secret, so she told you about the house party, knowing that you would tell me."

"You mean that she let me take the heat for telling you about it?" Tom questioned, clearly quite flabbergasted by this turn of events. "She did it on purpose?" He shook his head ruefully as Mary nodded in affirmation. "A man just doesn't stand a chance around you Crawley women," he mused, giving her a sideways glance before taking a drink of his wine.

_If we are mad enough to take on the Crawley girls, then we have to stick together._

She shook her head purposely to ward off a shiver, sipped some water and returned her attention determinedly to her brother-in-law.

"You poor thing," Mary sighed, taking some food from the tray Alfred held before her. She then chanced a glance in her mother's direction and warned, "Watch out, Tom. I wouldn't be surprised if she is making plans for you, too."

"Plans? What do you…?" he began, cut off by the most intimidating Crawley woman of them all.

"So, Mary, what are and Tom discussing in such hushed tones?" Violet demanded softly, staring at her granddaughter meaningfully. "Are you telling him details about the magnificent porter who saved the day, perchance?"

Feeling a prickle of ire mixed with dread, Mary faced her grandmother and replied, "No, Granny. We were just discussing the fact that Tom and I seem to have been left out of some rather large plans that have been put into action recently."

"Mary means the house party," Cora interjected, smiling sweetly at her daughter and trying to smooth over her reaction.

"Oh," Violet retorted, nodding her head in approval. "And are you looking forward to it? I know that I am."

"If you mean the house party you all planned behind my back, then no, I am not," Mary answered, feeling a bit stronger as indignation began to crawl up her spine.

"But why not, dear?" Violet inquired, obviously feigning surprise at Mary's reaction. "Surely you can see that it's a good idea."

"No, I do not, and if you really thought that I would then you would have told me about it weeks ago," Mary stated flatly, daring her grandmother to disagree with her over this issue.

"But I do think that it is a good idea," Robert interjected, looking at his daughter with all seriousness. "Bringing people into the house will add some levity to the place, fill it with life again."

The clang of Mary's fork as it fell to her plate ceased conversation immediately.

"Please forgive my poor choice of words, Mary," Robert apologized, looking truly flustered, "but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean," Mary began, the hard set of her jaw fixing her courage to continue. "You mean that there has been too much death in this house. And yes, I agree with that. I, of all people, agree with that." She rose to her feet, too agitated to remain seated for another moment before she drew breath and continued. "But bringing outsiders into our home will not bring back Matthew or Sybil! No one has the power to do that."

Tom, Robert and Dr. Clarkson rose quickly to their feet as Cora stated calmly, "Please sit down, Mary. That is not what your father meant." But she would not be silenced.

"If you truly think that by putting on a blue dress that I have suddenly recovered and that I am ready to entertain the world, then you are sadly mistaken. My heart still belongs to Matthew, and it always will, no matter how many people you bring into our home or how many pretty bachelors you parade under my nose!"

The words gushed from her, as she raced recklessly towards the same sort of release that she had been granted this afternoon with her travelling companion. She then started shaking, looking quickly to Tom as she suddenly felt very weak. He clasped her arm, in a show of support and stated calmly, "It's alright, Mary. Nobody would ever think such a thing."

As her eyes filled again, she wilted, her fire suddenly extinguished, and she had to lean against Tom for support. Carson quickly grasped her other arm, the two men holding her upright as her legs shook.

"Do sit down, my lady," Carson implored her quietly. "You need something to eat."

When she looked across the table, Isobel's eyes fastened upon hers, compassion flowing across the table to her daughter-in-law.

"It's alright, dear," the older woman stated calmly, giving Mary her most tender of smiles. "Everyone does understand."

Mary shut her eyes tightly again, attempting to physically block the pain that was threatening to destroy her son's birthday dinner. Tom and Carson helped lower her to her seat again as she opened her eyes, looking over at her son to reassure him that everything was alright after her outburst.

_It's going to be alright, Georgie._

She had spoken those very words just hours ago and had meant them. Dear God, would these ups and downs of emotions ever end? Mary fixed her courage, took a deep breath, and took a drink of wine.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she began hesitantly, her voice still shaky from her outburst. "I do know that you meant well. I don't know what came over me."

Her father looked at her thoughtfully, his eyes weighted with concern for her as he responded, "No, Mary, I am the one who should apologize. I should have gotten your consent before planning this party. Please forgive me."

Mary nodded to her father in forgiveness, taking another sip of wine to warm herself.

"I'm sorry, too, Mary," Cora began, her levity from earlier in the evening having deserted her. "But I'm afraid it is too late to cancel on everyone."

"I'm sure your guests would understand if you did," Isobel began before Mary cut her off.

"No—it's alright." Everyone gazed at her, trying to discern whether or not she meant her words. "Truly, it is. Plans have already been made, so we might as well see them through."

"You don't have to put on a brave face, Mary," her father began.

"Yes—I do," she interrupted, looking him squarely in the eye. "I have to put it on everyday for my son." Her chest began to rise and fall a bit too rapidly as she took another drink to steady herself. "But you see, one day I hope it won't be an act. One day, I shall truly be brave for him, and we shall be happy again."

She suddenly could not face anyone after sharing something so personal, her eyes dropping to her napkin which she now grasped as tightly as she had the handkerchief on the train.

_Be happy, Mary._

Instantly, Isobel was beside her, grasping her hands firmly as she stated, "You are the bravest person I know, Mary. Your courage is no act, and it does you credit." Her eyes filled with tears that Mary knew so well as she spoke words of affirmation over her departed son's wife. "I know how hard it is to keep going for your child when all you feel like doing is falling apart. You are an amazing woman and mother to your son. Matthew would be so proud of you."

_You will be an amazing mother._

Dear God, he was still everywhere around her but nowhere to be found! Mary embraced Isobel tightly, gripping this lifeline to Matthew even as she knew that they were both accepting his loss on a new level. She had to let go of some of her grief…for George….for herself. But she couldn't let go of him—not yet.

_You need to stop torturing yourself, my lady, and live your life._

Isobel patted her hands and moved quietly back to her seat as Mary wished desperately that she could simply disappear into the very walls around her. She must have conveyed her desires without speaking, for the remainder of the dinner conversation passed without further incident or outburst. She was profoundly grateful for being left alone with her musings and memories, still trying to process so much that had been thrown at her today. And some measure of peace finally began to settle again on her fragile spirit as she watched her son delight all of the people who loved him so much.

At the end of the meal, George's birthday treat—a large white cake beautifully decorated—was set before him.

"Mine? Mine?" the child kept repeating, pointing to the dessert before him as everyone applauded.

"Yes, dearest, it's yours," Mary answered, her face finally lighting up in a manner that none of her family had seen in some time. And as George covered himself in cake as he attempted to eat is slice, she actually laughed, a sound that brought genuine smiles to both her parents as they looked meaningfully at each other.

"Well, that bath before dinner was completely useless," Mary stated after they left the table, the ladies making their way to the drawing room while charge of the children was given over to their nanny. "I've never seen anyone so covered in cake!"

"Did you see Carson's face when George managed to get some of it on his tie?" Cora giggled, unable to contain her mirth any longer.

"I'm sure it was the highlight of his evening," Violet pronounced, smiling in spite of herself as they all took their seats.

"Oh, Mary, do you remember when Carson found you hiding under the dining room table devouring the apple tart you had stolen from the kitchen?" Cora continued, tears of laughter actually beginning to form in her eyes.

"Oh, yes," Mary laughed, "How could I forget? He told me that a real lady always eats at the table, not under it."

"Did he scold you?" Isobel asked, eagerly awaiting the rest of the story.

"Of course not," Cora answered before Mary was able to reply. "Carson would never scold Mary! When I arrived on the scene, he had her sitting squarely in the middle of the table, letting her eat as much apple tart as she desired."

"Do you remember how the apples were stuck in my hair?" Mary asked, now laughing in earnest.

"How could I forget?" Cora answered, shaking her head in mirth. "We nearly lost our nanny over that one!"

They were all laughing together, and suddenly Cora realized that it was one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. True laughter had been absent from Downton for far too long, and all four women seemed to come to the same realization simultaneously, gazing at each other with looks of startled wonder on their faces.

"Thank you," Mary stated quietly after a few moments of silence, "for this. I don't know why I was dreading tonight so frightfully."

"I do," her mother stated softly, moving to sit beside her daughter and taking her hand. "And it's alright." She paused momentarily before daring to ask, "Are you sure that you don't want us to try to cancel the house party?"

Mary paused a moment before answering honestly, "Yes, I'm sure. As long as you promise to not try to set me up with anyone."

"I promise," Cora assured her. But Mary had her doubts.

"You can at least tell me who is coming," Mary stated, getting up to take a glass of sherry.

"We've invited several dear friends that we haven't seen in years," Cora replied. "Your grandmother helped us compose the guest list." Somehow that didn't make Mary feel any better, giving Granny a pointed look that Violent simply returned.

"Do you remember the Gillinghams, dear?" Violet asked innocently, taking a sip of her sherry. "Lady Gillingham passed away two years ago, I believe, but Lord Gillingham, his daughter Emily and his son Anthony are supposed to attend."

"Anthony?" Mary inquired, her brows rising in concentration. "I haven't seen him since I was ten year old." She suddenly gave her mother an exasperating look, setting down her glass and stating, "Really, Mama!"

"What?" Cora replied innocently. "The Gillinghams were always dear friends, and I thought it would be nice for us all to become reacquainted."

Mary sighed, shaking her head. So much for having only old, crotchety bachelors in attendance.

"Then there are the Duke and Dutchess of Hartsford," Violet continued, drawing Mary's attention away from her mother. "You do remember Lillian Roquefort, don't you, Mary? She married quite well when she wed the duke. And I believe her brother will be joining us, as well."

"You mean Edward?" Mary interjected, aghast at where this conversation was leading, but determined to keep her cool. "And his wife?"

"Oh, I am fairly sure that he has not married yet," Violet replied, feigning a confused expression quite badly.

"I doubt he's any less tedious than he used to be, either," Mary stated, moving across the room to sit by Isobel. After all, she did need some support in this matter.

"And then there are Lord and Lady Keeton," Cora continued, this addition actually bringing a small smile to Mary's face.

"I did always like Caroline," Mary stated. "Her company will be nice to have. Do they have any children yet?"

"One boy," Cora answered with a smile, "just a few years older than Georgie. I thought it might be nice for him to have a friend here, as well."

Mary refrained from reminding her mother that George would not remember a thing about this gathering at the tender age of one. She was just glad that the Keetons were actually married and seemed to be devoid of any unattached siblings.

"And finally there is my old friend, Lady Catherine Blake," Violet chirped in. "She is bringing her nephew along, a Charles Blake, I believe."

"And just how old is Charles?" Mary asked, praying that he would miraculously be over the age of 55.

"Well, I don't really know," Violet replied, shrugging her shoulders as if it were a matter of little importance. "I believe he is a few years older than you, Mary, but not by much."

And there it was. At least three eligible young men near her age attending, all of them from good families. Mary stood, suddenly awash with emotion again. As her mother moved towards her in concern, Mary waved her away, turning her back to everyone as she doubled over. Isobel looked pointedly at Cora, both women walking towards Mary slowly to offer her some comfort. But when they reached her, the women realized with a start that she was laughing.

"I don't understand, dear, what is so funny?" her grandmother inquired. "Have I missed a joke?" She looked imploringly to the other women who simply shrugged their shoulders in confusion.

"No," Mary answered, laughing so hard that her sides were beginning to ache, "you created the joke! It would be pathetic if it weren't so ludicrous!"

"You're being so ridiculously obvious, even after you've just promised me that you won't try to set me up! But there are three single men arriving in just a few days, all of them handpicked by you. Dear God, I feel like I'm 19 again!"

"Mary, it's not like that," Cora began, reaching out to her daughter.

"It is just like that," Mary returned, walking away from them all but turning to face them when she felt she had created a safe distance. "Is there one in particular you would like me to take care of at dinner, Mama? Is there one whose family is of higher rank than the others?"

"Mary, that's enough," Cora finally stated, interrupting her daughter's tirade of mirthful annoyance in an attempt to explain. "No one here expects you to pay particular attention to any one gentleman over another. Who you spend time with is entirely your choice. Nobody else will have a say in the matter."

"Then why the inclusion of three eligible men if not to push one of them on me?" Mary asked incredulously, her eyes suddenly devoid of humor. "Do you really expect me to believe that this is some sort of coincidence?"

"No, my dear, it is not," Violet stated firmly, effectively putting an end to all conversation as she stood, moving purposefully towards her granddaughter until they were standing face to face. "Yes—your mother and I personally selected these men to attend, with the exception of one whom we were happy to include at the suggestion of his aunt. And yes, we would like it very much if you found one of them to your liking and moved on with your life. However, I can assure you that no pushing will be done by anyone, for we all know just how you would react to such a thing."

Her own words from a lifetime ago suddenly flashed in her mind, rendering her momentarily speechless. She clearly remembered a much younger, haughtier and foolish version of herself standing in Crawley House for the first time as she both saw and dismissed Matthew with one glance.

_I wouldn't want to push in._

Dear God, how utterly stupid she had been! How much more time could she have had with Matthew had she not been blinded by things that were of no true relevance?

"Your mother and I are simply trying to help you re-enter the world of the living," Violet continued, laying a hand on top of one of Mary's and effectively drawing her back into the present. "It can be quite a difficult task when someone we loved so much is no longer a part of it. Dwelling within your memories can become all too tempting, you know."

He was no longer here. No matter how badly she wished it, no matter how many nights she woke herself up crying his name, he was never coming back. She could grieve for him forever, and it would accomplish nothing save allowing her to pay some sort of imaginary penance over his death.

_You must stop blaming yourself, my lady. I am sure that it would be the last thing your husband would have wanted._

She then envisioned the man's warm smile, his words of reassurance flowing over her like a caress. She did have to stop these self-destructive thoughts or they would consume her.

Mary nodded to her grandmother silently, returning to sit quietly beside Isobel who smiled supportively at her.

"Are you alright now, Mary?" her mother finally asked after several moments of silence, not having any desire to upset her daughter any further.

"Yes, I think so," Mary answered. "At least, I will be. But I do have one question."

"What is it, dear?" Violet inquired, looking at Mary with interest.

"Emily Gillingham—is she married?"

"What?" Cora stammered, not sure that she had hear Mary's question correctly.

"Is Emily Gillingham married?" Mary asked again, making sure that no one in the room could misunderstand her words.

"No," Cora answered, her brows knit together as she tried to decipher her daughter's interest in such a thing. "Why do you ask?'

"No reason," Mary shrugged, effectively giving her mother and grandmother leave to discuss their plans concerning the upcoming party. "Poor Tom," Mary spoke quietly into her glass, causing Isobel nearly choke on her drink as she was the only one who heard her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter from Edith, an unexpected change and a visit with Isobel help Mary work through more of her grief and to begin to embrace life again.

She had dreamed of Matthew again.

There seemed to be no point to it, just a series of fleeting images and memories that played out in her sleeping mind. Mary awoke as she always did—missing him fiercely, aching for his touch, yet knowing that he was forever out of her reach. She allowed her fingers to ghost over his pillow a moment in remembrance, indulging herself for a fleeting moment as she imagined he was there beside her, smiling at her with that lop-sided grin of his and stroking her hair. But a moment was all she would allow, for she refused to give in to the familiar desire to remain in bed and block out the world around her. It was time to get up and live.

Mary was amazed to feel a new determination burning within her, one that gave her a purpose. She had decided to make some changes and take charge of this new life she was now living. And she knew exactly what she wanted to do first.

When her breakfast arrived, Mary quickly ate her fill, wanting to tell Anna of her decision before she lost her nerve. When it was finally time for her to get dressed, Mary took a deep breath and plunged ahead, shocking her lady's maid when she declared, "Anna, I'd like you to cut my hair."

Mrs. Bates was frozen to her spot, looking at Mary in utter disbelief.

"How much would you like me to cut off, mi'lady?" the maid asked, uncertainty creasing her features.

"As much as you can," Mary replied, looking away from Anna as she rubbed lotion into her arms and hands. "I'd like one of the new, modern looks."

"Are you certain about this, mi'lady?" Anna finally asked, taking Mary's long, dark tresses into her hands, allowing them to fall through her fingers. "You have such beautiful hair, and you told me once that you thought you would never cut it short."

Mary looked at Anna in the mirror, her determination allowing for no argument in the matter.

"That was because Mr. Matthew liked it long," she replied, immensely proud of herself that she actually said it without crying. "But I have decided that it is time that I begin to move on, Anna. I must make some changes in my life if…" Her voice faltered momentarily, and she drew a deep breath. "If I am ever going to heal," she finished, her eyes silently pleading with Anna for understanding.

Anna gave her smile, nodding her head in affirmation as full understanding took root.

"I think it's a brilliant idea, mi'lady," she agreed, "and I agree with you. The new look will suit you." Mary smiled, showing more courage than she felt as Anna fetched a pair of scissors. "You're certain?" Anna asked once more, unwilling to touch the shears to Mary's head without decisive permission.

"Absolutely," Mary affirmed, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap to keep them from shaking. She forced herself to keep her eyes open and watch Anna snip off the first piece at her shoulder. "For God's sake, Anna, I said I wanted it short," Mary stated, looking over her shoulder at her friend.

"I know, mi'lady, but I wanted to make sure before I cut off too much," Anna replied, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of making the first cut on Mary's hair.

"Here, give them to me," Mary insisted, taking the scissors in her own hands. She pulled a strand of her hair straight, and cut it off just at the level of her chin. Both women froze for a moment, staring at the image in the mirror with owl-like expressions before a lone tear trailed down Mary's cheek. She lightly clutched air where hair used to be, allowing herself one moment to grieve as she let go of a piece of herself, a tangible connection to her past. But a moment was all she would tolerate as she drew a deep breath, sat up taller and turned away from the looking glass.

"Do you think you can manage now?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady as she held the scissors out towards Anna. "I really can't yell at you now that I've made the first cut."

Anna finally pulled herself out of her frozen stance, shaking her head slightly as she took up the task presented to her.

"I'll remind you of that if you don't like it in the end," she replied as more thick clumps of black hair began to fall to the floor.

Mary rubbed her neck, feeling nothing but skin where her hair used to lie. She could not get over how such a small thing as cutting one's hair could stir up so many varied emotions. She felt absolutely thrilled and horrified at the same time. But more than anything, she felt lighter. Physically lighter, emotionally lighter, understanding that cutting her hair had just released her from more unnecessary weight. She continued to stare at herself in the mirror, shaking her new bob, admiring how it twirled freely with the motion, and how nicely it went with the emerald dress she had chosen to wear for the day.

Her mother and grandmother were right: it was time to put away the black and allow some color back into her life.

Mary closed her eyes in a silent prayer that somehow Matthew would understand. And suddenly, her dream on the train filled her memories, blocking out everything else for one ethereal moment.

_Be happy, Mary._

"I am trying," Mary whispered to herself in response, smiling softly as she opened her eyes.

"Do you like it, Anna?" she finally had the nerve to ask, looking to the other woman for her reaction.

Anna could not help herself as a beaming smile broke across her face, exclaiming without a doubt, "I love it!"

"So do I," Mary announced hesitantly, gazing at her reflection a moment more before she stood, squaring her shoulders as she prepared to face the rest of her family. "I wonder what Mama will say," Mary mused before walking to her door.

"I think she'll be pleased," Anna returned, giving Mary an encouraging smile. "After all, Lady Edith cut her hair a long time ago. She shouldn't be too shocked by your new look."

"Goodness knows I've done many more shocking things in my life than this," Mary quipped, smoothing her dress and feeling her neck once again, still so unused to the new sensation of short hair. "And wouldn't Edith just die if she knew that I had done something like her."

"I think she would approve," Anna returned, walking towards the nightstand beside Mary's bed and retrieving a small package. "Here, mi'laday," she spoke as she handed it to Mary. "This came for you yesterday from New York. It's from your sister."

"Yesterday?" Mary exclaimed, examining the package and looking at Anna. "Heavens, I must have overlooked it with all of the activity. I do hope everything is alright."

"I'm sure that it is, or we would have heard otherwise by now," Anna answered, as she opened the door. "She probably just wanted to wish George a happy birthday. I'll leave you to your package, mi'lady," she stated before taking her leave and closing the door behind her. A letter from Edith was truly the last thing that Mary had expected, much less a package from her stateside sister. She opened the box, finding a book entitled _The Magical Land of Noom_ and a letter addressed to her. She held the parchment close to her and began to read.

_Dear Mary, I did my best to post this letter from New York so it would reach you and Georgie in time for his birthday. I do hope it did. Regardless, please give my nephew a big hug for me. He is such a sweet boy, and I miss him so._

_I do hope he enjoys the book. I know it is a bit old for him yet, but I also know just how much you like to read to him in the nursery at bedtime. This is a newly published book that I thought would do well for him as he grows. If he is anything like his mother, he shall be quite a great reader._

_Life for me in New York is going quite well. The pace of it suits me better than life at Downton, I must say. Having a story published in "The Metropolitan" has certainly opened doors for me and allowed me some time to really work on my craft. Things are so different for women here, Mary. I knew that all American women have the vote, regardless of whether or not they are over the age of 30 or married, but to see the way they carry themselves here is amazing. Life is not about whose daughter you are or how well you marry. Here, you can create the person that you want to be into your own reality. You cannot imagine just how much I love that sort of freedom._

_I want you to know just how sorry I am that Matthew is not there with you, today of all days. My heart still breaks when I think of how everything happened one year ago. We all miss him dreadfully, but I know that no one's grief can compare to yours. I just wanted you to know that I have never doubted your strength or spirit, and I am so proud by how you have been raising your son under such dreadful circumstances. I know we rarely see eye to eye on anything, but if I were with you today at Downton, I would give you a hug whether you liked it or not and tell you that I love you, my sister. For as much and as often as we fight, we are still family, and I do want you to be happy._

_Grandmama sends hugs and wants you to know that she would very much like it if you and Georgie could come for a visit when he is a bit older. I do believe he would really enjoy an outing to Coney Island. It is such an interesting place. Please give everyone my love._

_Sincerely,_

_Your Sister Edith_

Mary was stunned. She loved Edith, too, yet those words so often went unsaid between the two of them, too often replaced by quips or sarcasm as they so often strove to one-up each other. She stood in wonder at the kind letter that her sister had taken the time to write, touched by the sentiments and thoughts expressed. She and Edith had quite a history of poor dealings with each other in person. Perhaps they could establish a better relationship through the post. Intrigued by that notion, Mary folded her letter and opened her smallest drawer to place it inside.

She was then staring directly at her oldest photo of Matthew.

Mary plucked it out, gingerly holding it against her breast with trembling hands as she put the letter away. This was the photo she had gazed upon every night of their engagement before she went to bed, eagerly awaiting the time when they would go to bed together. She had prayed for him every night when he was at the front, staring at this picture as she begged God repeatedly to keep him safe. And God had brought him safely home from the war. But not from the hospital. Mary suddenly wondered if she had not prayed enough…perhaps, if she had continued her vigil every night, even after the war was over…perhaps…

No. She would not begin this self-declared first day of her new life with self-doubt or reproach. She looked upon his face in the photograph a moment more, tracing her thumb across his cheek as she stated, "Wish me luck, Matthew. I shall certainly need it."

_Such good luck._

Mary returned the picture to its special place, hesitating a moment before she closed the drawer, rubbing her neck again as she tried to smile. She then turned towards her door and made her way into the rest of the house and her new life.

Her family's reaction to her drastic new hairstyle had been more enthusiastic than Mary could have predicted. Her mother had come as close to jumping up and down as she had ever seen her, and her father had been rendered nearly speechless. He actually beamed at her before setting out to visit the cottages as Mary prepared herself to walk George into town for a luncheon with Isobel. She was also planning to post a letter she had composed to Edith of heart-felt thanks for her thoughtfulness. The content of her sister's letter had caught her so completely off-guard, but Mary did not want to miss this opportunity to extend the olive branch back to Edith. If there was one lesson she had learned in spades this past year, it was that nothing in life was secure.

_I don't want to take us for granted._ _Who knows what's coming?_

If she had known, she would have told him she loved him more frequently. She would have spent less time fussing with her wardrobe and more time taking walks with him. And she would not have wasted so much time worrying about her pride or trying to make sure everything was certain. No—if she had been aware of what was coming, she would have grasped happiness with Matthew as soon as the opportunity presented itself to her. Mary was all too aware that she could change none of that now, and that knowledge still lay as a dead weight upon her heart. But she could make certain that she did not build such regrets with her son.

George was in many ways her saving grace.

The sky was blue as she set off on her journey, but the wind caused her continued difficulty, gusting so strongly at times that she could barely keep George's pram on a straight course. Was a storm blowing in? There was certainly no observable evidence yet in the sky, but Mary could somehow sense that rain would be arriving soon. She made a mental note to call for a ride home from Crawley House, not wanting to take a chance that she and George could get caught in a storm. The pair finally arrived for luncheon a bit worse for wear. George had purposely dropped his teething ring on the journey to town and was absolutely furious with his mother for not returning it to him. Isobel heard the child's screams from upstairs before Moseley ever managed to open the door.

"Oh dear, what is all this ruckus about," Isobel called from the stairs good-naturedly as she made her way down to greet them. She froze at halfway down, staring at Mary with dark eyes widened by momentary shock.

"Good heavens," she whispered, only half-believing what she was seeing in front of her. "Mary—your hair…"

"Do you like it?" Mary interrupted, feeling suddenly like a child getting caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. Somehow, in her mind, Isobel's opinion of her new hairstyle represented what Matthew would think. And no matter how many times she told herself that no one's opinion mattered but her own, Mary knew that was an outright lie. Isobel's opinion mattered dreadfully.

She began to rub her neck self-consciously with one hand, standing in silence as she awaited the verdict. Isobel walked towards her, laid a hand of reassurance on her shoulder and said,

"I think it's simply marvelous!"

"Do you really?" Mary gushed, small tears of relief welling in her eyes as she released a breath she had not realized she had been holding.

"Yes, I do," Isobel affirmed, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "It really suits you, Mary."

Mary quickly embraced her mother-in-law, effectively squeezing George between them, relishing the love and acceptance she had found in such an unlikely source. Her son was not pleased by this move, however, and he vocalized his protest quite loudly.

"Come hear, my dearest boy," Isobel coaxed, taking the lad from his mother's arms and carrying him upstairs. "I see you are a bit cranky this afternoon."

"Yes, he is," Mary confirmed, following Isobel's lead up the steps. "I believe the combination of his new tooth and all of yesterday's excitements have made him a bit out of sorts today."

"That is understandable," the boy's grandmother responded, looking at him intently. "Do you think he would nap if I rocked him?"

Mary smiled at Isobel's eagerness to just that. "I'm not sure, but I certainly have no objections is you wish to try," she replied, rubbing his soft hair and kissing his forehead.

"Well then, make yourself comfortable, my dear," Isobel stated, already moving towards the small room she had refurbished into a nursery for her grandchild's visits. The room had just been completed a few days before they boarded the train for Scotland. How Matthew had laughed at his mother's determination to have a place for George to call his own at Crawley House.

_Oh, Matthew._

Mary stood in the very room where she had seen him for the first time. He had followed her down the very stairs she had just ascended practically begging for her forgiveness and understanding as she cut him off with one statement.

_You're right. The whole thing is a complete joke!_

How could she have known that afternoon that two years later she would have walked through hell itself to have the opportunity to spend her life loving him, that she would have to wait for eight years in order to finally hear him ask, "Lady Mary Crawley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"You fool," she stated to the empty room, shaking her head at her own stupidity.

Just then Moseley interrupted her thoughts, entering quietly and stating, "I have a message for you, Lady Crawley."

"Thank you, Moseley" she replied, taking the note from him that he handed to her and opening it at once. But the man servant remained rooted to his spot, watching her intently. "That will be all."

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but I was instructed to wait and send your reply," Moseley uttered, taking one step away from her nonetheless.

"Alright," she sighed in reply, walking towards the windows in order to afford herself a bit of privacy as she read. "Ah, it's from my grandmother," Mary stated, somehow knowing that before she ever opened the message. "She would like me to stop by for tea before we go back to Downton." She paused, wondering if this was to become a continuation of last night's conversation. Mary rather hoped not, but she also knew that it was very difficult to refuse Violet Crawley anything.

"Moseley, please inform Her Ladyship that Master George and I will be happy to come for tea this afternoon," Mary replied, turning towards the butler before continuing, "but that we shall require a car to return us home afterwards."

"Very good, my lady," Moseley answered, bowing slightly before he exited the room. Her mind still occupied by thoughts of what her grandmother might want to discuss, Mary hardly noticed when Isobel re-entered the room.

"He fell asleep so fast," she smiled, offering Mary a seat and taking one herself.

"I'm so glad," Mary stated in relief. "He's been a bit off all so badly needed a nap."

"More than he needed lunch, I daresay," Isobel replied. "But I am sure that you could use some food, my dear. Lunch should be ready very shortly."

"Thank you," Mary said, so thankful for the opportunity to have some time alone with her mother-in-law after last night's conversation. Isobel had remained uncharacteristically silent both during and after the rather ridiculous discussion over possible suitors. After Mary had bowed to the wishes of her mother and grandmother concerning the guest list, she had truly believed that Isobel might speak up for her and offer a show of support in her rebellion against the idea of allowing another man into her life. But Isobel had said nothing. Mary decided to tackle the topic directly rather than skirt around it for the remainder of the afternoon, knowing that frankness was a quality that Isobel both appreciated and admired.

"I am sorry you had to be party to my disagreement with Mama and Granny last night," Mary began, looking to her mother-in-law to gage her reaction. "I was truly quite unprepared for this entire house party idea, as you became well-aware, and you know me: I don't particularly like for others to meddle in my affairs."

"Oh, yes," Isobel agreed without hesitation. "That's a quality that you and I share. Matthew grew up with a mother who did not hesitate in voicing her opinion, so I was not surprised that he chose a wife who knew her own mind."

"I suppose he was surrounded," Mary mused, remembering several lively discussions they had had during their all too brief marriage. "But he never seemed to mind. I suppose you did have him well trained in that regard."

"I am afraid you just made him sound rather like a puppy, my dear," Isobel replied, shocking Mary as she noticed the grin on the other woman's face.

"Oh, I suppose I did," Mary admitted, her surprise over Isobel's comment readily apparent on her face. "He would not have appreciated that at all."

Then together they did something that they had not done in a year: they laughed together while discussing Matthew.

Isobel and Mary had shared many tears over him, holding and consoling each other after many emotional discussions. They had both shared their anger, frustrations, and fears over his passing. Their talks had been angst-ridden and somber in their tone, even when they were attempting to encourage each other. But they had not yet been able to laugh…until today. And somehow, the room seemed lighter.

"I rather agree with you on that one," Isobel nodded. She then paused and thoughtfully gazed at her daughter-in-law. "I am so very proud of you, Mary. You have truly taken some rather large steps on your road to healing over the past few days, and I am so very glad to see it."

"Thank you," Mary replied, hesitating slightly before she voiced her concern. "I was a bit afraid that you would think that by cutting my hair I was trying to forget him, but I could never…"

"Of course you couldn't, and no one who knew you would ever believe that," Isobel replied, moving to the settee to sit directly beside the younger woman. "What you and Matthew had was very special, and he will always be a part of you, just as Reggie is still a part of me."

_You will always be my Mary._

She was still his, attached to his memory by so many cords that were still fastened tightly around her. Some of those cords had been severed brutally the day that he died, but others still bound her fast to him. Mary began to wonder just how many would have to be loosened in order to truly consider herself healed and if she would have the continued strength to complete the task. But she had to—for George's sake.

Isobel paused, choosing her words very carefully before plowing ahead.

"There comes a point in grieving someone you loved that you are finally able to accept the truth of the situation, no matter how difficult or unfair." A lone tear broke free crossing a pattern across her cheek as she continued. "What you have had to endure has been ghastly, Mary. I don't believe Matthew faced anything worse in the trenches during the war that what you have been through. But you have borne it admirably and survived."

"I'm not sure that I have ever done anything admirable my entire life," Mary returned, fighting the swell of emotion in her breast as she sought to be strong.

"I disagree," Isobel stated, almost daring Mary to disagree with her. "You have faced more than your fair share of difficulties, even before Matthew's death." Her gaze softened again as she voiced, "Matthew so admired your spirit and resilience. And so do I."

"Oh, please don't try to make me over into some sort of saint," Mary breathed, covering Isobel's hands with her own. "Many of the trials I faced were of my own making. I've been a very foolish person quite frequently during my life."

"We've all made foolish mistakes, Mary, but you are no fool," Isobel returned, clasping Mary's hand tightly. "You are a remarkable woman that I am proud to call my daughter." She then hesitated slightly before adding, "And I do hope that you will allow me to consider you in such a manner always, even if you do meet someone else and marry again."

Oh, God…not Isobel, too! Was everyone in the entire village of Downton determined to marry her off to the first desirable suitor?

"Isobel, I do not know if that will ever happen," Mary began, not wanting to offend this woman who was so very dear to her, but wanting to be quite clear with her intentions. "There is one thing of which I am certain, however, and that is that I shall never meet nor love another man like Matthew."

"No, you will not," Isobel agreed, her demeanor quite calm. "But there are other good men out there, and you are still a young woman with a great capacity for love. I do hope that when you are ready that you will not needlessly punish yourself and run away from that possibility." Isobel then smiled softly to herself, her voice cracking slightly as she uttered, "Having someone by your side can make these rough journeys a bit less daunting, my dear."

Mary froze, realization hitting her with a force that nearly knocked her over. Dr. Clarkson! Of course—he and Isobel had been spending more time together for months now, but Mary had never suspected anything more than a close friendship. But the slight glow that seemed to radiate from the older woman was suddenly unmistakable. She wanted Mary to find love again because she had finally found it herself. And somehow, that love was making the loss of her son slightly more bearable.

Try as she might, the only word Mary could formulate was, "Oh."

Isobel took pity upon the woman sitting before her, smiling as she said, "It may yet be too soon for you, Mary. Only you can know that for certain. But I daresay that one day, perhaps sooner than you think, a man will suddenly capture your attention. There will be something about him—perhaps his eyes or his smile—that makes you feel something you thought forever lost."

Warm dark eyes, a beguiling smile, dimples that caught her attention… Mary's hand moved like a shot and covered her mouth before she had the foresight to control her actions. She stood abruptly, unable to face Isobel as she moved towards the windows.

"Mary, I am so sorry if I have upset you," Isobel apologized, stepping quickly towards her daughter-in-law to appease her. "Please look at me, dear. It's alright—I won't mention it again if it makes you feel better."

Mary closed her eyes, suddenly feeling quite hot as she pressed her hands to her cheeks. She turned slowly to face Isobel who was startled to see that the younger woman was blushing furiously.

"Mary?" she asked with great hesitation, knowing that her daughter-in-law was feeling quite trapped yet hoping she would share what was so obviously distressing her.

"Oh, God," Mary exclaimed, striding quickly to the other side of the room, attempting desperately to cool the heat of mortification ravaging her body. But she knew that Isobel was not a woman to be easily fooled or put off. Perhaps it would just be better to say it and be done with it. Hadn't the woman just told her that she wanted her to move on? She turned slowly until she was facing Isobel again and breathed, "I just noticed someone yesterday…a man."

Even saying it felt like a betrayal to Matthew, her words tasting bitter as they left her mouth. But her stomach began to flutter again and a nervous rush of warmth raced through her veins. How utterly ridiculous that her own body seemed to be at war with itself!

"Why, that's marvelous, Mary," Isobel affirmed, her voice quiet and soothing even as Mary's insides raged in turmoil.

"It hardly matters as I'll probably never see him again," Mary replied rather quickly, swallowing hard and breathing slowly to calm her racing heart. "He showed me a kindness on the journey home from London. That is all."

"The man on the train," Isobel deduced, realization suddenly dawning as to where Mary's discomfort over that discussion from the previous evening had sprung. "The one who retrieved George's teddy bear…he wasn't a porter, I take it."

"No," Mary admitted, hanging her head momentarily as she attempted to gather her thoughts. "Oh, Isobel, please do not mention this to anyone—especially to Mama or Granny! They would make more of this than there is to make, and I cannot deal with them right now. I hardly know how to deal with myself over this."

The words flew out of her mouth before she had time to consider their impact, but she felt so horribly powerless all of a sudden! How dare that stranger waltz into her berth and make her notice his blasted dimples, make her somewhat hopeful, make her feel that she might be able to actually feel again. How dare he make her feel anything!

"Do not worry yourself over it," Isobel instructed calmly, somehow having crossed the distance between them without Mary's awareness. "These are just the first signs of spring after a long, difficult winter, Mary. There is still some coldness to endure, but the warmth will be arriving soon. You are healing, dear."

"I'm not sure if I'm strong enough for this," Mary whispered, the flash of anger that had assailed her now burned out.

"You are stronger than you realize," Isobel returned, her eyes full of confidence in the young woman before her. "You have already braved the worst of this storm, you know."

Mary nodded wordlessly, closing her eyes yet again. She could see him, standing beside her after that late-night search for Isis when he had finally convinced her to tell him about Kamal Pamuk. She relived the physical impact of his words when he told her that no—he could never despise her. And she heard his voice so clearly, almost as if he were standing behind her.

_You're strong…a storm-braver if ever I saw one._

Oh, Matthew! Why had he left her to face this storm on her own? She was so tired of standing up to the rampage, of fearing what might come next, of always feeling the need to be brave. But she would continue to do so for Matthew's sake, for George's sake… And for her own. Yes—maybe she did deserve to heal, to experience the beauty of life re-awakening after feeling so wretchedly the cold touch of death. And even though the calendar declared it was September, Mary began to wonder if Isobel could be right. Perhaps spring was closer than she had realized. She then smiled as she made a promise to herself. When her heart had finally thawed and healed, she and George would go and sit in her mother's garden. And they would paint the tulips together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary visits Matthew's grave and receives startling news when she takes tea with her grandmother.

Luncheon at Crawley House passed in relative peace. Her unplanned confession of the fleeting attraction she had felt for her companion on the train had most astonishingly left Mary feeling even lighter in Isobel's presence, as if she had been absolved from some grievous sin and had been made righteous again. Although, she thought ironically to herself, righteous would be the very last adjective she would ever apply to herself. The word was much more appropriately applied to Matthew, and Mary again felt the deep and ever-present awe over the fact that he had chosen her, loved her and had somehow believed her to be so much more than she was.

Miraculous, indeed.

It was another small miracle that George continued to sleep through the afternoon, showing absolutely no sign of stirring even well after the two women had finished their meal. At Isobel's suggestion, Mary left the exhausted child with his grandmother to finish his nap while she journeyed on to post her letter and take tea with her grandmother. Posting the letter would be a simple task, indeed. Tea with Violet Crawley…well, Mary knew she would need all of her wits about her for that event.

The undeniable scent of rain was now thick in the air as the force of the wind continued to escalate, the very strength of it threatening to rob Mary of her hat. The temperature had dropped somewhat, as well, making her quite grateful that she and her son would have transportation home as a chill ran up her legs. It would worry her to have George out too long in weather such as this, and the pram would be quite useless in a deluge. And truthfully, so would she. As she journeyed towards the Dowager House, her feet led her on a path so very well-known to them, the very wind seeming to push her down the road from behind to the destination she had somehow known would be hers at some point during the day.

Mary froze by the gate, her legs taking root into the road below her as she gazed into the churchyard. Into the cemetery.

How strange and tragic that it was the graveyard that first drew her thoughts whenever she approached the church. Somehow, it should be memories of her wedding that flooded her conscious mind rather than the unwelcome pangs of early death. But Mary knew that would never be. His death had changed everything for her, reordering the priorities of her memories and emotions, giving her very little choice in how she ordered her thoughts. No—those choices had been ripped from her grasp the day that Matthew had met that lorry, and she had seemingly traveled a path already marked for her whether she approved of it or not. And she had truly believed that those choices would never genuinely be hers again, that she would never be able to command her own mind the way she desired…until yesterday. And that both thrilled and terrified her.

Mary had come to this spot so very frequently throughout the year, sometimes conversing with Matthew as if he could actually hear her, other times not uttering a word. She had come despondent, angry, exhausted, horrified, and at times, even numb. But she had never arrived at his grave feeling even remotely hopeful—this was new, this was…she truly could not even label it, for the feelings swirling within her were so jumbled that she could not sort them properly. A part of her wanted desperately to walk to his grave and to simply sit by the stone that bore his name, to close her eyes and dwell among her memories. But the other part of her wanted to flee, to run as far as she could from any further reminders of her exhaustive pain.

Would it be so horrible if she simply walked away? Was it not alright to visit another day when she felt stronger? Could she really visit the village without visiting his grave? Was it alright for her to want to be truly happy again?

An invisible magnet pulled her unwittingly forward, drawing her closer to the place she held in utter reverence yet so often dreaded to come. Her legs forced her past the church, through the grass, pushing her towards the unorthodox alter onto which she so often left her outpouring of suffering and guilt. She had arrived, staring at the words that could both scream at her so loudly that she wanted to cover her ears and whisper so tenderly to her battered heart that she could melt into a puddle on the ground.

_Matthew Reginald Crawley…Beloved Husband and Father._

It seemed so little to say for how much he had been, a beautiful life reduced to a mere seven words carved into stone. Mary traced the writing with her fingers as she had countless times before, chilled by the cold rock and wishing with every fiber of her being that she could touch the lines of his face instead.

"Oh, Matthew, this is so hard," she whispered, not knowing if he could hear her or not, but needing to voice her thoughts just the same. She remembered days of being so blissfully happy that she thought her heart would burst from it. Instead, it had shattered in her hands while she was cradling her new baby. She had words today, words that she desperately needed to utter, thankful that no one else was present at this moment to hear her as she unburdened her heart to the man who could no longer judge her, and had chosen not to do so even when he had the opportunity.

Oh, Matthew.

"I can't stay long today, darling," Mary choked, "but I wanted you to know just how proud you would be of your son. He's a year old now, Matthew. Can you believe it? He will be walking soon, and then I shall have to work hard to keep up with him." She smiled through welling tears as she spoke of George. "He loves ducks and anything sweet to eat," Mary continued, rubbing her arms against the chill brought by the wind and stirring in the trees around her. "And he already loves books. _The Little Red Hen_ has become a favorite of his. Of course, Mama insists it is because the Little Red Hen reminds him of me, but I think he just likes trying to say 'Do myself!'"

She had to stop and laugh when she thought of her son mimicking the words that she read to him each night, working so hard to get them right. The sound of his precious voice was so very clear in her mind, making her heart well up in adoration for him. One day soon he would be speaking sentences, he would read for himself and be too large to fit snugly upon her lap in the nursery. The wonder of it all made her shiver in awe. Her voice broke as she swallowed deeply.

"Thank you for giving him to me, Matthew. You would love him so much. He is such a wonderful little boy!"

_My dearest little chap._

"I do tell him about you," Mary breathed, her lip quivering slightly as his image filled her mind. "How his eyes are so like yours, how much you loved him and are watching out for him even though he cannot see you. So you had better do your duty by him, Matthew Crawley, and see that he grows to be a fine, healthy young man."

The breeze ever so gently caressed her neck, making her rub it in response.

"I am trying to be the mother you believed I could be," she continued, trying to convince herself, "but it was so unfair of you to leave me to do it alone. He is your son, too, Matthew. You should be here to raise him! He does need a father."

The words gushed out of her before she could call them back, clutching the tombstone tightly for support until the muscles in her arms ached. Mary then stared at her hands, lifting them haltingly, suddenly aware that she would not fall if she let go. She took a small step backwards.

"And I've cut my hair," she admitted, plunging forward and smiling in spite of herself. "I know that you did not want me to, but you also know me well enough to know that I rarely do as I'm told."

Mary could clearly visualize him rolling his eyes at her at her admission, giving her that one-sided grin that always melted her heart.

"Besides—if you had wanted me to keep it long, you should have stayed." She dared a small laugh at what Matthew's response would have been to that statement. "Everyone seems to think that I should move on," Mary continued, her brow crinkling a bit as she still pondered this unexpected fact, "even your mother." She breathed deeply, licked her lips that were drying in the autumn air and continued, "She has been so good to me, Matthew. And George just adores her. He really loves the little nursery that she had built for him, the one you so teased her about."

A squirrel darted in front of her, startling her as she watched the creature pause for a moment before soaring into the trees above her. He was gathering nuts, no doubt, already making preparations for the impending winter, the leaves shivering on cue as if in confirmation of her musings. She drew her arms about herself to ward off the chill threatening to grip her spine.

"I know you didn't want to leave us," she whispered, a newly forged strength now keeping most of her tears at bay while a stubborn one still managed to break free. "But that doesn't make it hurt any less. The pain has nearly crippled me, Matthew. I feel as if I am having to learn how to walk all over again—just like George." She paused, drawing the autumn air into her lungs, the moisture of impending rain filling her senses. "But I shall do it," Mary stated, the thread of determination in her voice thin but holding fast. "You know I never back down from a challenge."

There—she had said her peace.

And just as she had after sharing with Isobel, Mary felt lighter. The reality of it was still so very new, so fragile, but wholly welcome and miraculous to her. She closed her eyes, drawing courage from the very depths of her being as she grasped the seeds of hope so recently planted in her heart. The wind suddenly rushed up her dress, billowing under her newly cut hair and making her shiver her as the first fall leaves brushed against her feet. Mary thought suddenly that she was not yet ready to face another winter, her body trembling in response. She was weary of the bone-chilling loneliness that had nearly destroyed her spirit last year. She was longing for spring's arrival.

"I'll always love you, Matthew Crawley," she uttered, turning slowly and deliberately to face the sun, its rays tingling on her cheeks and warming her slightly. "But I cannot stay. I have to go now."

_Of course you have._

The words seemed to be carried by the wind straight to her heart, gripping her tightly as they also oddly set her free. She could nearly feel his touch on her face, sensing to her core just how much he had loved her and just how much that love had forever changed her life. A robin then took flight, its tender song suddenly some of the sweetest music she had ever heard. For somehow, all of a sudden, Mary understood. Matthew would truly want her to be happy. He would want her to laugh, to experience beauty, and to open her heart up to the world around her. He would encourage her to be adventurous, to be brave and to create a life full of joy and possibility for herself and their son. And yes, he would even want her to love again.

She was suddenly cold no more.

"Thank you," she whispered, turning back to look at his grave as a lone tear of gratitude slid down her cheek, the September wind carrying her words to a destination unseen. She then paused thoughtfully, clasping both hands to her heart as she breathed, "You will always be my Matthew."

And a lark sang back in reply.

* * *

 

Feeling rather askew and still somewhat fragile upon her arrival at the Dowager House, Mary was trying to right herself quickly as she was shown into the sitting room. The pounding of her heart was nearly deafening as she tried to brace herself for the reaction she was fairly certain awaited her, one she could only hope she had the strength to withstand:

The reaction of Violet Crawley.

"Mary, dear," Violet began as her granddaughter was announced, freezing in mid-sentence when Mary entered the room. The Dowager Countess had seemingly lost the ability to blink, actually gaping at the younger woman until she had quite recovered her speech.

"Good heavens, child, where is the rest of your hair?"

"By now I should say that it is probably well-disposed of in the rubbish bin," Mary replied, keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon her grandmother as she willed her heart to carry on at an acceptable rate.

"Do you not think that it served you better attached to your head? What good can it possibly do anyone tossed out with the rubbish?" Violet returned, the pitch of her voice rising with every word. "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"

"You did," Mary answered, keeping her voice steady as she forced herself to remain calm at her grandmother's indignant expression. "Did you not tell me that it was time I move forward with my life?"

It was then that Violet actually took in the fact that Mary was dressed in green rather than black, a flash of approval flitting across her expression as she raised her chin in acknowledgement. Their locked stares reflected mutual love, admiration and a high degree of respect, but also resolute stubbornness. The silence crackled between them, each wondering just how long it would take before the other would finally speak.

"Well, then," the Dowager compromised, never breaking eye contact with Mary as a small grin attempted to break free, making her lips twitch in the effort to contain it. "I approve."

"Thank you, Granny," Mary returned, tilting her head and smiling at her grandmother. "I knew that you would."

Violet grudgingly had to admit to herself that Mary had always had to do things in her own way and at her own time, and if moving on with her life meant the loss of some of her hair, well, so be it. She then took a deep breath and decided that it was time to get back to the business at hand.

"I am so glad that you were able to come, my dear," she announced, directing Mary's attention to the other woman in the room. "I have an old friend that I would very much like you to meet."

Mary took in her grandmother's guest, a spritely white-headed woman with some of the merriest green eyes she had ever seen. She had not realized they were to have company for tea but welcomed the fact, wondering if the presence of an additional person would dissuade her grandmother from any further discussion of potential suitors. But highly doubting it.

"This is Lady Catherine Blake. Lady Blake, may I present my granddaughter, Lady Mary Crawley."

"It is such a pleasure to at last make your acquaintance, Lady Mary," Lady Catherine beamed, her face alight with a smile. "Your grandmother has told me so much about you."

Mary began to wonder if any portion of the woman's face was not smiling. Every wrinkle, every crevice seemed to be lifted upward into an expression she could only describe as utter joy. It was both beautiful and humbling.

"Thank you, Lady Catherine," Mary replied, liking this woman instantly which was a rather foreign occurrence for her. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance." She then sent her grandmother a subtle rather quizzical look as she continued, "I do hope that Granny has not been over-taxing you with tales about me."

"Not at all," Lady Catherine responded, her soft voice actually quite musical. "She is very proud of you, my dear. She has also told me so much about your precious son."

"Where is George?" Violet asked, looking around the room as if the child would miraculously materialize out of thin air. "I thought he was with you today."

"He is, but I am afraid he fell asleep at Crawley House," Mary answered. "He was quite tuckered out."

"I told you going to London yesterday was a bad idea," Violet murmured under her breath, earning a pointed look from her granddaughter that she purposefully chose to ignore.

"Nonsense," Lady Catherine remarked, her eyes twinkling as she reached for Mary's hands and squeezed them gently. "Sometimes a trip to the unknown is good for the soul, isn't that right, dear?" '=

"Exactly," Mary agreed, finding herself inexplicably drawn to the older woman who had just had the nerve to disagree with her grandmother and was still smiling about it. Perhaps it was the complete absence of pretense, or the fullness of spirit that spilled out of her that aroused Mary's interest. But whatever it was, Lady Catherine Blake simply radiated happiness, almost as if …

As if she had swallowed a box of fireworks.

It was happening again. How could she spiral so quickly from being at peace to feeling as if she had been ripped open once more, from actually believing she was gaining a small bit of control in her life to having that control being torn from her grasp? Would she always walk with one foot in the world of the living and the other in the realm of ghosts? The boundary between the two seemed so frustratingly vague sometimes as she could suddenly see Matthew holding George as through a veil, not knowing it would be the only time he would do so. The force of the memory pressed down on her, breaking through the walls meant to separate the two domains and choking her spirit. Dear God, it was so unfair!

Mary closed her eyes and drew a deep breath decisively. No—she was not in that hospital anymore! She was at her grandmother's house about to have tea, and she could take charge of this piece of her life. Matthew could not die again. That travesty had already occurred, and he could not leave her another time. It was done. She had survived the unthinkable once, and she would continue to bear its ramifications every day of her life, but she would no longer let them break her spirit. The shadows had no place here.

"Are you quite alright, dear," Violet asked, a wary look crossing her features as she cut into Mary's thoughts. "Perhaps you should sit down."

"I'm fine, Granny," Mary responded, although she was still quivering inside. "A bit of lunch just disagreed with me. That's all." She would not speak of her struggle, not here, so she pressed a look of interest on her face and stated, "I thought I heard a peal of thunder. Did neither of you hear it?"

"No," Lady Catherine answered before thoughtfully adding, "but my hearing is not what it used to be."

"Well, there is nothing at all wrong with my ears, and I heard nothing," Violet interjected, continuing to stare at her granddaughter in a most unsettling manner.

"It is of little matter whether you heard it or not, for there is a storm brewing," Mary stated, her calm exterior beginning to claim dominance over her shifting emotions once again. "It may become quite nasty soon." It then dawned upon Mary to wonder just how Lady Catherine would return to her home when the rough weather made its appearance. "How far did you travel today, Lady Catherine?" she queried, looking at older woman with concern.

Lady Catherine smiled, pausing to thank the servant for her tea.

"I reside in York now, so the journey by car is rather short, actually. I shall return home shortly and return for the gathering at Downton in a few days. It is so very kind of your family to have me."

"They are delighted to have you at Downton," Violet interjected, her eyes instructing her granddaughter to echo those sentiments immediately.

"Have you lived elsewhere?" Mary asked instead, her storm-tossed insides beginning to finally settle as conversation took a more comfortable turn.

"Oh, yes," Lady Catherine affirmed, nodding her head before taking a sip of her tea. "I resided in Edinburgh until just recently."

That explained the musical lilt that Mary heard in the woman's voice.

"But you are English," Mary stated. "What drew you to Scotland?"

Lady Catherine's eyes suddenly fixed upon Mary, taking in the younger woman's measure with thoroughness and delicacy. Her radiant smile then returned as she leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, "A new life, my dear."

Mary could have sworn she felt the wind upon her neck as those words were uttered even though she knew with certainty that no windows in the house were open. The promise of such a thing seemed so tantalizingly close yet still frustratingly out of reach as Lady Catherine's answer echoed in her mind.

A new life…

"Lady Catherine was always quite the adventurer," Violet put in, as she took a sandwich and deftly steered the conversation. "She has never let herself be bound by convention. I thought the two of you would hit it off quite nicely."

A keen intrigue as to this woman's past was taking root in Mary, giving rise to several questions she would like to ask this new acquaintance of hers. Perhaps she would have enjoyable company and interesting conversation at the house party after all.

"I was an instructor of literature, philosophy and art at a girl's school in Edinburgh for over 30 years," Lady Catherine continued, a wistfulness overtaking her features as she unwittingly did just as Lady Mary had silently bade her to do—discuss her past. "I did so enjoy my life there."

"What brought you back to England?" Mary inquired, unsure of why a lady would have worked as a teacher in a girl's school but deciding that she would hold that question until the two of them had become better acquainted.

"Family, my dear," Lady Catherine answered without hesitation. "I have very little family left, and life is short, you know."

Yes—she knew it all too well.

_Who knows what is coming?_

"You have family in York?" Mary continued, forcibly pushing down any disturbing thoughts from her being. She turned her musings to Lady Catherine and quickly deduced that a woman who had spent her adult life as a teacher probably had neither a husband nor any children. She then wondered what family had drawn her back to England.

"My nephew," Lady Catherine replied, her face shining at the mere mention of his name. "Charles is such a dear boy, and he only arrived back from India a few weeks ago."

Ah…Charles Blake…one of the unmarried men who would be staying at Downton in a matter of days, one of the three doomed dandies from which she was supposed to choose. Why did there have to be a catch in this delightful situation? Mary hastily decided that she would not like him nearly as much as she liked his aunt. She hoped that Lady Catherine's desire to make her acquaintance was not merely a means to size her up as a possible match for her nephew. She was in for a disappointment if that was her motive.

"He was there for many years, was he not?" Violet inquired, noticing how Mary had momentarily dropped the thread of conversation.

"Nearly half his life," Lady Catherine replied, pausing before she took a bite of her biscuit and looking directly at Mary. "He attended boarding school in England and then went on to Oxford, but spent the remainder of his adult life in India."

"Oxford," Mary interjected, taking a soothing sip of tea. "He must be quite the scholar."

"Charles is quite intelligent, but he went to Oxford mostly to please his father," Lady Catherine admitted, shaking her head slightly. "They had a rather difficult relationship, I'm afraid."

"He would certainly not be the only child in the world to disappoint his parents," Mary stated, choosing a small sandwich in an avoidance of making eye contact.

"Don't I know it," Lady Catherine added with a small laugh. She then became quite thoughtful as the past flitted across her face, her eyes becoming nearly vacant for a moment before she righted herself and continued. "My brother—his father—did not marry until he was fifty-one years old. He was quite the confirmed bachelor and spent most of his time in India on an estate that he purchased and ran there. He never desired a wife or family and was perfectly content being alone. But he felt keenly that it was his duty to continue the line and provide an heir for his estate."

Mary had felt that same duty—that knowledge that so much rested upon her for the sake of her family's estate. It had consumed her, pushed her, molded her into the woman she had become as it had also nearly kept her from the most glorious love of her life. And duty itself had shown its face the moment she presented her son to his father, that most sacred moment now forever tainted in her memory by her words spoken out of relief.

_We've done our duty._

Dear God! Could she ever take those words back? How they had ceaselessly tormented her since the moment they were uttered. She had been elated that her duty had finally been accomplished to Downton by finally giving her father the heir that she had never been able to be. But she had not meant to diminish the wonder of George for himself, not just as heir to Downton but as her and Matthew's child. Mary took a quick sip of tea, lowering her head so the others would not witness yet another moment of weakness on her part. She knew those words would never come back to her, and she was thankful that the only person who had heard her utter them was Matthew. But he was also the person she hated hearing them the most.

"Mary, are you alright, dear?" her grandmother questioned.

"Yes," Mary answered automatically, purposefully raising her chin and smiling in her manner that alerted her grandmother to the fact that just the opposite was true.

"Am I boring you, my dear?" Lady Catherine inquired, looking at her in genuine concern.

"Heavens, no!" Mary stated truthfully, snapping herself back into the conversation around her as she sought to reassure her grandmother's guest. "Please continue, Lady Catherine."

"Yes, Catherine," Violet affirmed, an obvious command in her voice as she continued, "We are all ears, aren't we, Mary?" Their eyes locked yet again as another truce was wordlessly forged.

"Well then, if you insist," Lady Catherine agreed, sipping her tea before she began. "Albert, my brother, finally returned to England to find a suitable wife. He married Lady Alice Edgewood, a very young woman from a highly respectable family with very little money." She then narrowed her bright eyes as she stated, "The marriage was a complete disaster. I always thought she was a heartless little thing."

Mary was taken aback by the unprecedented show of bitterness she heard in Lady Catherine's voice. She would have thought the woman nearly incapable of such an emotion.

"Alice absolutely refused to live in India, although Albert had made her quite aware he had every intention of returning to his home there as soon as possible," Lady Catherine explained, drawing a deliberate breath. "She was absolutely horrid to Albert, treated the servants abysmally, and seemed intent on making everyone's life as miserable as her own."

"If I didn't know better, I would swear she was French," Violet bemused, smiling at her own joke as Mary raised her tea cup to her in a silent nod of acknowledgement.

"Even the French would have been embarrassed by her," Lady Catherine retorted, pleasantly surprising Mary as she openly showed this touch of irreverence.

"Oh, dear, that bad?" Violet bemused, shaking her head at the thoughts of an Englishwoman sinking to such depths.

"Quite," Lady Catherine nodded, her expression saddening as she continued. "Neither Alice nor Albert really wanted to become parents, but she conceived very quickly and gave birth to Charlie. He was the most beautiful, perfect little boy. I fell in love with him the moment I saw that precious baby. He was a bit early and little small, but healthy. He just needed the love and care of his mother in order to thrive."

Just like her George…if she hadn't...

_What if's are absolutely pointless, Mary. Dwelling on things you cannot change is useless._

Mary drew in her mother's words and wrapped them around herself like a protective blanket. She had to cease using the past to torment herself. She then noticed that Lady Catherine had grown silent, her beautiful face looking so terribly distraught.

"What happened?" she asked quietly. Lady Catherine shook her head, dropping her gaze to her tea momentarily before she stated,

"She would have nothing to do with him. His mother would not even touch her own child."

How could that be? When Isobel placed George in her arms for the first time, she had been overwhelmed. He was so very small...so terribly helpless…and absolutely hers. Mary had loved him on sight, and could not imagine how a mother could be so indifferent. She was ashamed to remember that there had been nights right after his birth when she could not rock him because the memories of his father tore at her until she was sure that she bled. She was horrified when she thought of the moments when she had to walk away from George to catch her breath because he reminded her too deeply of what she had lost. But she had always loved her son with a fierceness that would never falter. And she would have cut out her own heart if she had to do so to protect him.

A mother who wanted nothing to do with her child? Was that even possible?

"What happened to him?" Mary asked, concern and disbelief still etched in her features.

"I took him," Lady Catherine answered with a smile, taking a bite of her biscuit as if she had just stated the obvious. Mary nearly choked at these words as they took her so by surprise.

"You took him? The baby?"

"Yes," Lady Catherine replied, smiling softly again at Mary. "His mother did not want him, and his father had no idea what to do with a baby. They were just going to let him falter. So I took him with me to Scotland where I raised him until he was ten years old."

Unconventional indeed.

"What happened then?" Mary inquired, now completely engrossed in this woman's life story. "Did his mother not fight you for him?"

"Alice?" Lady Catherine exclaimed, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Of course not. She whined a bit about being deprived of the love of her son, but she was happy for someone to take him off her hands. She never even wrote to check on his progress."

"Dear God," Mary breathed, still unable to take such unconcern into her consciousness.

"Precisely," Lady Catherine agreed, gazing at Mary as a mutual understanding passed between them, a shared weight of horror at the inaction of this mother. "Alice died not long after Albert finally insisted that they return to India. Malaria, I believe. Charlie was only two years old."

"And his father?" Mary inquired, unable to accept that a man could be so indifferent to his own child—especially after she had witnessed the absolute adoration Matthew had felt for George, how he had stroked her womb when their son still lay nestled within it and would read to both of them each night with such tenderness. Her hand flitted to her abdomen in an unconscious moment of remembrance.

"When Charlie was ten, Albert decided that it was time for Charlie to live in India with him so he could learn to manage the estate. So I had to take him to India—to his father."

"That must have been hard for you," Mary empathized, unable to imagine the torture of sending away a child that you had raised from infancy. She suddenly longed to have George safe in her arms feeling strangely bereft without him. Lady Catherine sat silent, her breathing the only sound in the room besides the wind pressing against the windows.

"I felt as if a part of me had been torn away," she finally admitted, shaking her head gently as she cleared her throat. Mary knew that sensation all to well, sealing her eyes shut against the pain.

_I feel as though half of me is missing._

"I could not have loved a child any more if I had given birth to him, and I missed him so terribly. But his father knew how close Charlie was to me, and he sent him to Scotland for summers and holidays. It was not the same, but it did make life much more bearable," Lady Catherine concluded, smiling to herself. She suddenly drew herself out of past reminisces, sat up taller and added, "Albert died over a year ago, leaving everything to Charles. He took care of the business that needed doing in India, and now he is back in England to stay."

"A wise decision, I am sure," Violet stated, sipping her tea gingerly as she finished, "Why, the insects alone would convince any sensible person to settle as far away from India as possible."

"Charlie is quite sensible, I assure you," Lady Catherine volunteered, her merry smile back in full force as she leaned back in her chair.

"I look forward to meeting him," Mary lied smoothly, noting that even though Charles Blake had lived a rather fascinating yet tragic life, she would not willingly show any interest in the man. No matter how much she liked his aunt.

"I'm glad to hear it, for he will in fact be giving you a lift back to Downton this afternoon," Violet chirped in, rewarded by a look of utter shock upon the face of her granddaughter. "You will be able to meet him quite shortly."

"Oh, that is quite unnecessary," Mary began, despising how suddenly flustered she felt as circumstances were ripped from her control yet again. She had enjoyed learning about Charlie the boy, but she was in no way ready to meet Charles the man. "I can ring for a car from Downton. I would not want to cause him any inconvenience," she offered, knowing even as the words left her mouth that the suggestion would be futile, but trying just the same.

"Oh, it's no inconvenience at all," Lady Catherine soothed, her assurances not making Mary feel the least bit better. "Charles is the one who drove me here for our lovely visit today. I know he will not mind in the slightest giving you and your son a lift home."

Anger stirred quite rapidly within her, coursing through her blood as she sat up taller. Mary was upset with these two women who had arranged for her to ride with this man rather than in a chauffeured car. She was cross with the weather for its uncooperative attitude. Were a storm not on the horizon, she could have simply refused the offer and walked home, claiming a desire for fresh air. And she was mad at herself for not simply taking matters into her own hands by calling Carson and asking him to have a car sent for her. But as it was, she had no choice but to ride home with the nephew. Calling Downton for a car after Lady Catherine's generous offer would just appear rude. But Mary was just not prepared to meet one of her hand-picked suitors today. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and simply too weary to have to suddenly raise her defenses. She was supposed to have had more time.

"Charlie always liked children, as well," Lady Catherine continued, quite unaware of the inner struggle waging within the young woman sitting next to her. "It would give him great pleasure to meet your son, my dear." She then leaned close to Mary, whispering as if she had the most delicious secret. "He was telling me of the cutest little chap he met yesterday on the train from London. He was quite taken with the lad."

Mary's heart stopped. The train…London… yesterday…It could not be!

_I have a favorite aunt who resides in York. I am shamefully overdue a visit with her._

"The train from London?" Violet picked up, suddenly looking at Mary with keen interest taking note of her sudden discomfort

"Yes," Lady Catherine smiled, leaning towards Violet as she said, "Evidently they played some sort of game with a rather large stuffed bear."

Mary knew then that she was going to become ill. Her hands were shaking violently as the walls seemed to press in on her. She was not ready to face him again—his smile, his dimples, his… Dear God, she had to get out of this house!

Mary stood abruptly nearly knocking over the table, her face flush as she had trouble drawing breath. She could not think clearly, knowing only that she had to leave immediately, fetch George and go home. She had no time to lose.

"Mary, heavens, what is wrong?" Violet demanded, actual concern now emblazoned on her features.

"Nothing, I, I…" Mary gripped the edge of the table, drew a deep breath and attempted, "I am suddenly very hot. I just need a breath of fresh air."

"Are you ill?" Violet asked, grasping Mary's arm and trying to encourage her to sit back down. "Perhaps I should call Dr. Clarkson for you, dear."

"No, I am quite well," Mary returned, keenly aware that her grandmother was simply too close to something she desperately wanted to keep private. "There is no need to fetch Dr. Clarkson, Granny."

Mary gently forced her way behind her grandmother and made her way across the room. She felt suddenly dizzy, her thoughts tumbling over on each other so that she could not make sense of anything. This could not be happening. He would be at the house party! At Downton! Oh, God!

Mary turned in haste to face the two perplexed and noticeably concerned women who stood quite suddenly in resistance to her leaving.

"Mary, I must protest…" Violet began, suddenly being quite unaccustomedly cut off by her granddaughter.

"Please forgive my abrupt departure, Lady Catherine," Mary breathed, recovering a bit of composure. "It has been a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. I look forward to having you at Downton."

She then looked to her grandmother and added desperately, "Forgive me, Granny."

With that, Mary turned and fled towards the exit, her eyes focused squarely upon the approaching door. She could not face him! Not here, not yet…not in front of Granny! Thank God—she was nearly there! With shaking hands, Mary grasped the door handle, yanking it open as she pushed herself forward… And straight into the arms of a very startled Charles Blake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Mary runs into Charles Blake again...in more than one sense of the word.

There was simply no way to tell who was more surprised by the sudden turn of events. Mary had grasped the door handle, hoping in passionate desperation to run into freedom and fresh air. But she had instead collided rather solidly into a man's chest, his arms grasping her tightly to keep them both upright.

"Are you alright, my lady?" an all-too familiar voice inquired, making Mary shiver all over as she kept her head bent in an attempt to stall the inevitable.

Dear God—how had this happened? He was here…she was in his arms…at her grandmother's house! It was the worst possible scenario! Mary took a deep breath and hesitantly raised her eyes to his, hers already round from fear as his widened in absolute surprise.

Oh, yes, he had recognized her.

"Lady Mary Crawley, I presume," he spoke, breaking his hold of her gently as they were both now steady on their feet. All speech and sense had completely deserted her, and she found she could only nod in response. His mouth turned up into a smile as his warm eyes took her in, making her shiver all the more. "My name is Charles Blake," he continued, realizing that she was in a truly agitated state. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

She wanted to scream for him to leave, to run, to not let her grandmother see him! But her tongue seemed too thick for intelligent speech, her mouth too dry to do anything but swallow. She could only shake her head in response as she took a step backwards, futilely attempting to put some space in between them so she could at least try to gather her thoughts before…

"Mary? Are you quite alright?" Her grandmother's voice sailed through the walls, prickling Mary's spine as she turned quickly in the direction from which it had flown. What believable answer could she possibly give? Dear God—why could she not stop trembling? This was so unlike her!

"You are not well," Charles stated firmly as he caught her in two steps, his eyes boring into hers. "Dear God, you are shaking like a leaf. Here—take my coat."

He quickly divested himself of the garment, wrapping it around her before she had the strength to protest. The warmth of it spread intoxicatingly through every limb of her body, as did its scent…a combination of spices and peppermint that made her legs inexplicably weak.

"Forgive me, Lady Mary," he requested suddenly, sweeping Mary up in his arms before she was able to voice any type of protest, clutching her firmly to his chest as he carried her purposefully back to her grandmother's sitting room.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" she finally managed, a stream of hot outrage boiling over inside of her as she railed at his utter impertinence.

"I am so glad to hear you can speak," he smiled, his utter tranquility grating irritatingly against her every atom. Blasted man! How was it that he was so calm while she was coming apart at the seams? "I am taking you to have some tea," Charles continued, pausing just before they reached the entrance of the sitting room. "You need to sit and recover your warmth. Are you now strong enough for me to set you down?"

"Yes, of course!" Mary hissed in response, the flashing anger in her eyes seeming only to feed the vexing grin teasing her so mercilessly. "Please release me at once."

"As you wish, my lady," he replied, setting her with gentleness and stepping away from her just as his aunt and her grandmother reached the door in quite a state.

"Good heavens," Violet cried, taking in the pair standing by the door. "What on earth is happening out here?" She then looked very pointedly at Mary and demanded, "And why are you wearing Mr. Blake's coat?"

"Forgive me, your ladyship," Charles answered smoothly, casting Mary a reassuring glance before answering, "Lady Mary has taken a chill, so I gave her my coat to warm her."

"How very gallant of you," Violet responded, quirking her eyebrow at the young man in a strange mixture of interest and exasperation. "Mary—I am afraid you have given us all quite a start. I insist that you come back inside and sit down until you have calmed yourself enough to make a proper exit."

"But George—" Mary tried, cut off quickly by a piercing stare from her grandmother.

"I insist," the Dowager Countess commanded, leaving no room at all for disagreement. "Mrs. Crawley is perfectly capable of caring for him a bit longer. It is you who concerns me." She turned and made her way back to her preferred chair, Lady Catherine following suit after turning to give the pair of them a quick smile. Mary remained frozen, trying to sensibly digest everything that was swirling out of control so dreadfully. There seemed to be no possible means by which she could now make a hasty exit. Her heart began to pound forcefully, making her feel slightly sick as her brow creased in consternation. How had she gotten herself into this mess? What should she do?

"After you," Charles interrupted, bowing slightly as his arms indicated the sitting room. "Or would you prefer me to carry you in, my lady?"

That did it.

Mary suddenly snapped back to herself, her pride and ire straightening her spine as she shot him a look of fire and replied, "Don't look so pleased by the prospect, Mr. Blake." She then brushed by him, hearing an unmistakable chuckle rumble deep in his chest.

Had he been this infuriating on the train?

"I take it the two of you are already acquainted, for all of your wearing of coats and secretive glances," Violet stated, her tone making it clear that she would not believe any type of denial.

"Mr. Blake introduced himself at the door," Mary responded quickly, still unwilling to volunteer any information about their journey on the train. "He caught me just as I was going out."

"Quite literally, I'm afraid," Charles responded, giving her a sideways grin that prickled up and down her spine. "I was not paying proper attention to where I was going and nearly trampled your granddaughter. It was so very unexpected that I believe it may become a memory that I shall carry with me always."

Had she really heard him correctly? Mary flashed him a glance of incredulous disbelief which he caught expertly, raising one eyebrow playfully to match hers as he tossed her a dare.

"Thankfully, she has forgiven me."

The nerve!

"Of course I did," Mary returned, determined that he should not get the best of her. "How could I not forgive someone who was blundering about so dreadfully? It would be so uncharitable of me."

His eyebrow quirked even higher in a silent touché as Mary brought her teacup to her lips, the warm liquid beginning to settle her like a magic potion. Carry her in, indeed!

"I must say, my dear, you look much better than when you made your overly-hasty exit," Lady Catherine intervened, leaning in towards Mary intently. "You had us both quite worried. I hope I said nothing to distress you."

"Oh, no," Mary insisted a bit too hastily, "Nothing like that. I just needed some air, as I told you."

"You did look rather flushed when we met at the door, Lady Mary," Charles interjected, enjoying himself far too much for her comfort.

"Yes—she was terribly flushed," Lady Catherine agreed, "and I can't for the life of me remember what we were discussing that upset you so." Thank God for small miracles!

"There was nothing, I assure…" Mary tried, decidedly cut off by her grandmother in mid-sentence.

"I remember perfectly," Violet interjected, narrowing her eyes at Mary in a manner than would unnerve the Prime Minister himself. "We were discussing the fact that Mr. Blake had offered to give you a lift home."

Mary's stomach dropped like a stone. Her grandmother's quick mind which she always readily admired was about to be her undoing. She could not look at him—it would give too much away! But she sensed his response all the same as she heard his soft intake of breath. Charles Blake now understood. He had realized that she did not want to discuss their encounter on the train.

"It was not the ride itself that distressed me, Granny," Mary began, praying continually that her voice sounded normal. "I just remembered that I had a letter that I had neglected to post, and I wanted to do so before it was too late."

"It must have been an important letter, then," Charles replied smoothly, his unnerving wit practically brimming in his eyes. "I could give you a lift there now if you like so you can post it before the day is over."

"No, I would not want to trouble you any further," Mary responded, looking towards Lady Catherine as she continued. "Your kind offer to drive me to Downton is more than sufficient."

"Nonsense," he stated, taking a sip of his tea. "I am more than happy to lift you as often as needed." She could not help the incredulous look that came upon her face. How dare he? Was he determined to keep her off her game?

"I believe you meant to say that you would be happy to give her a lift," Violet declared, turning her inquisitive gaze upon Charles which he took in stride rather admirably.

"Precisely. Is that not what I said?" he asked innocently. Oh, he was good at this game. She would have to watch herself carefully.

"No—not quite," her ladyship replied, her eyes beginning to sparkle in such a manner that Mary now knew she was enjoying herself. And she realized with a start that she was as well.

"I'm sure that lifting me about quite frequently would get rather tiresome," Mary stated, her own eyes flashing as she took up the challenge. "Besides, I rather enjoy a walk."

"Walking is good for the soul," Lady Catherine chimed, the only person at the table who seemed to be taking the conversation at face value.

"That it is," Charles agreed, leaning back a bit. "However, I would certainly not recommend it this afternoon. A storm will be here soon, I'm afraid. Surely a lift would be much preferable to a walk under these circumstances. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Mary?"

"I suppose that would be a matter of opinion," Mary rallied, "based upon the quality of the lift being offered." She gave him a self-satisfied smirk, catching a rather dangerous gleam in his eye as he took a sip of his tea.

"That is precisely what Lady Mary said earlier," Lady Catherine agreed, looking meaningfully at her nephew. "That a storm was brewing. Perhaps one more lift may be in order. What do you say, Charles?" She then turned to Mary, patted her hand in assurance and smiled, "He is rather good at it, my dear."

Mary nearly choked on her tea. Dear heavens—did she know? Had Lady Catherine secretly deduced that she and George were her nephew's companions on the train? Mary studied the older woman carefully, instantly apprehensive of what she may have figured out. Maybe it had been just an innocent remark. But Mary was hardly willing to take that for granted.

"I am at Lady Mary's disposal," Charles stated, his brown eyes daringly sincere as he looked from his aunt back to Mary.

"I am sure that you are," Violet put in, just loud enough for everyone to hear but quietly enough to make them wonder if they had heard her correctly. She then quite adeptly directed the conversation to exactly where she desired it to go but where Mary feared the most. "So you took the train from London to York yesterday, Mr. Blake. Did you have a pleasant trip?"

The thudding of Mary's heart in her ears threatened to drown out his reply, so she stared at him desperately, pleading with him in absolute silence to guard their secret.

"I had a most pleasant journey, thank you," he answered, drinking his tea as if nothing were amiss. Oh—if she could only make him understand!

"I am glad to hear it," Violet stated, looking pointedly at Mary as she made her next remark. "I find that one's travelling companions can make a trip either enjoyable or quite tiresome."

"Granny, I'm sure that Mr. Blake does not wish to discuss his trip from London with us," Mary cut in, willing her voice not to betray the edginess prickling her pores. "That could prove to be quite tedious conversation indeed."

"Especially if one's company is behaving tediously," Violet remarked, not to be put off quite so easily. Mary did not flinch though every nerve ending in her body was standing at attention.

"I was blessed indeed to enjoy the company of some most excellent people yesterday," Charles stated, his eyes grazing over her just enough to make her shiver slightly. "Especially those with whom I shared a berth."

"I understand you were quite taken with a little boy," Violet proceeded, not willing to let the topic drop for a moment. "Your aunt told us that you played some sort of game with him involving a teddy bear."

"He was a beautiful child," Charles answered, his genuine smile when he spoke of George touching a chord in Mary that unleashed a disturbing warmth. "I do not get to enjoy the company of children very often, your ladyship, so I must admit to being delighted by his enthusiasm."

He had no children, then. But why should she give a fig about such a matter? He was just a man, wasn't he?

She was jolted back to the conversation at hand rather harshly when her grandmother revealed, "What a strange coincidence that my great-grandson's favorite toy is a rather garishly large teddy bear and that he was also aboard a train from London to York yesterday. Do you not find that odd, Mr. Blake?"

Mary felt the color drain from her body, seeming to pool in a puddle at her feet as she awaited his response.

"I am sure that I would have enjoyed time with your great-grandson every bit as much as I did with the child I met on the train," Mr. Blake stated, turning his brown eyes directly to Mary's as her pulse raced at a merciless speed. "But I am afraid that I did not have the privilege of introducing myself to Lady Mary until we met just a few moments ago on your doorstep."

Thank God.

She was finally able to actually fill her lungs with air for the first time since she had realized Charles Blake's actual identity. And she drew it in greedily, a small measure of relief stroking her senses. Her eyes flashed in admiration of how he had managed to both truthfully answer her grandmother and conceal the truth of their encounter simultaneously. How very thankful she was that they had not shared introductions upon the train. Mary gave him a slight nod, hoping it would convey her sincerest gratitude for his discretion, knowing that it was not enough. Charles Blake had protected her. And she was most sincerely in his debt.

"I still find it quite interesting," Violet mused, her eyes boring into Mary's in such a manner that Mary knew she was not yet satisfied. No—she was not yet off the proverbial hook in this matter. At least not with Violet Crawley.

"As do I, Granny," Mary responded, setting down her teacup gently. "Interesting, indeed. And I'm sure that Mr. Blake would make a most excellent travelling companion. Perhaps I shall have the good fortune to run into him the next time I take the train."

"It would be my pleasure, Lady Mary. You can save me from having to carry on with any tedious company." Charles concluded, his smile unnerving her again as his dimples seemed to wink at her from across the table.

Conversation settled into more mundane topics much to Mary's relief, but she remained on alert, seemingly ordinary details striking her with pinprick clarity as if her environment had been unnaturally amplified. Words, whispers, glances, even the clearing of throats made her skin shiver as if she was experiencing these details for the first time. Was this how the world felt to a new baby, she wondered to herself, trying to brush off this uncomfortable sensitivity in exchange for tougher skin. But a roll of distant thunder brought all talk to a momentary cessation, drawing everyone's attention to the impending storm brewing outside.

"Perhaps I should bring the car around, Lady Mary," Charles began, glancing out the window to the dark gray clouds that were pushing in. "I fear the storm will be upon us shortly, and I would very much like to deliver you and your son home safely before the worst of it arrives. Shall I meet you out front?"

"That would be lovely, Mr. Blake," Mary stated, "Providing Granny will release me from her custody."

"Don't be cheeky, Mary," Violet ordered, making no attempt to disguise her frustration with her granddaughter. "Of course you must go and fetch George before the storm arrives." The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, her eyes narrowing as she concluded, "However, you might want to return Mr. Blake's coat to him, my dear. I am sure that he could use it before he goes out to face the elements."

"Of course," Mary agreed, embarrassed by her oversight as her stomach began to flutter nervously much to her chagrin. He stepped behind her when she stood, his nearness parching her throat as all air seemed to desert the room. She shivered as he slid the garment across her skin, stirring up a longing to be touched in a manner that she forcibly ignored.

Dear God, what was wrong with her? And when had the room become so unbearably hot?

"Thank you, Granny," Mary managed, unable to make eye contact with anyone as Charles took his leave from the room. She drew a deep breath to cleanse her thoughts, breathing in the very scent of him that still clung to her, only serving to make her want to scream out in frustration. She suddenly felt very exposed and shivered despite the heat coursing through her body. She forced her thoughts from him, trying to cool the source of unbidden warmth that had sprung up within her as she somehow politely asked, "Lady Catherine, will you be riding to Downton with us?"

How very foreign her voice sounded to own ears, as if she were moving her lips in collaboration with speech originating from an outside source quite detached from her.

"Oh no, dear. I shall wait here and visit as much as I can until Charles returns for me." Lady Catherine responded, looking entirely too satisfied with herself at that response. Oh, yes—Mr. Blake's aunt was craftier than Mary had at first suspected. The thought of being completely alone with Charles Blake even for only a few minutes completely unnerved her. She was far too aware of the man, her senses seemingly out to betray her where he was concerned. But she did need the opportunity to thank him for his confidentiality, and the trip home would provide her with that chance. She would just have to deal with her nerves.

It would appear she had little choice in the matter.

Mary bid Lady Catherine good-bye for the evening, Violet standing and moving along with her as she called back, "I shall return in a moment, Catherine. I would like a moment in private with my granddaughter."

Not now. Every facet of her being was already on high alert, making her want to jump at the slightest provocation. But her grandmother would not be put off, so Mary willed her heart to beat as normally as it possibly could as her grandmother walked alongside her to the front door.

"Well, Mary, do you have anything you wish to say to me?" Violet inquired when they were out of earshot, pouncing with the all the speed and efficiency of a large cat spotting a weakness in its prey.

"Thank you for the tea," Mary offered smoothly, returning her grandmother's stare with a rather forced intensity of her own.

"Do not play with me, Mary Josephine," Violet ordered, leaning in even closer as she commandeered all the authority she so easily mustered, forcing Mary to conclude that even Elizabeth I could have garnered a few pointers in intimidation from her grandmother. "You know very well of what I speak!"

Mary sighed, tired of this familial battle of wills as her shoulders dropped slightly.

"What do you want me to say, Granny? That I met Charles Blake in London and we made mad, passionate love with each other on the train ride back to York? Would that satisfy you?"

"Not exactly, but that is a better story than the one you are currently telling," Violet responded without a flinch. "Although it would have been a bit awkward with George on board."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but we did nothing of the sort," Mary stated firmly, turning to face her grandmother boldly eye to eye. "Believe whichever story you like, but Mr. Blake spoke the truth when he said that we were introduced to each other just today."

"Well, then," Violet murmured, pursing her lips together. "He made quite a first impression, I daresay."

And much to Mary's utter annoyance, her pulse leapt in agreement.

Charles miraculously arrived with the car at that moment, granting Mary the opportunity to kiss Violet's cheek as she whispered in undisguised relief, "Good-evening, Granny," making her exit as speedily as decorum would allow as she dashed towards the automobile. She would have flown out the door if she could have willed wings to sprout from her back. The wind was biting now, and Mary knew that walking anywhere would have been an utter impossibility. Charles deftly helped her into the car, dashing quickly around to the other side before climbing in beside her and closing the door to the world around them, instantly creating a small sanctuary from the elements. Mary simply stared through the window and focused on breathing evenly, feeling entrapped and pardoned simultaneously, sheltered from the brutal gale brewing outside the windows but horribly bound to the ridiculous nerves shackling her senses. She had to somehow pacify this conflict of emotions that seemed to drug her logical mind at the most inopportune moments. She could handle this situation. She must.

"Your grandmother is quite a woman," he stated, gently coaxing her eyes to move to his in acknowledgement of his words. But his grin was absolutely infectious, imperceptibly persuading Mary to smile back, relief at being away from such exacting scrutiny making her suddenly quite giddy.

"You're being kind," Mary returned, allowing her head to drop back on the seat for a moment as a flood of relief doused her nerves, laughter breaking from its forced captivity as it coupled with his and filled the car's interior. They had survived the inquisition of Violet Crawley—thank God Well, at least the first round.

"Will you allow me to pay you a compliment and say that I like your hair very much?" he dared, a look of actual nervousness playing across his features as he quietly sought her approval of his rather bold assertion.

"Thank you," she answered softly, her senses responding all too quickly to his words. "I never turn down a compliment."

"As you shouldn't," he returned before a charged silence settled over the car. Why should the fact that he simply noticed and commented upon her change of hairstyle make her feel like debutante awaiting her first dance? It was too much yet just enough as she frantically tried to make some sense of it all, failing miserably as her logical mind scrambled to cope with unleashed sensibilities. "When did you cut it?" he finally queried, raising a brow in question and pulling her out of her own private discourse.

"This morning," Mary responded, looking out the window at the leaves whipping violently in the harsh wind that offered them no mercy. "I thought," she paused, finally looking back up at him before finishing, "I thought it was fitting—something new for a new life."

Mary felt instantly vulnerable, as if she had put herself on display for his inspection. Why, oh why did she keep telling this man such personal details about herself? The words seemed to pour out of her before she had the sense to filter her conversation, as if he were a basin into which they were destined to spill.

"Good for you," he simply stated, his words of approbation warming as quickly as his coat had done in the house. "That took some courage."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she doubted, shaking her head ruefully. "I was actually quite nervous about it."

"My point exactly," he stated, the admiration in his expression robbing her of any further argument, the unbidden smile that caressed her lips her sole response. Charles took the keys in his hand and started the motor, prompting Mary to lean towards him, placing her hand hesitantly on his arm before she lost her nerve as she offered,

"Before we drive away, please allow me to thank you properly for what you did for me."

"You mean not telling them about our train ride together?" he verbalized, his brown eyes drawing her in softly as she nodded back in affirmation.

"For that and the train ride itself," she admitted, glancing down at her lap as her cheeks warmed once more against her will. "I told you so much, things I haven't said to anyone else, you see." She drew a deep breath, daring to hope that it might somehow fill her with courage as she continued, "It somehow seemed so safe to share things with you, as I thought, I mean…"

"You thought you would never see me again," he finished for her, turning in his seat so he could face her properly and magically causing the car's interior to shrink in size. Once again, she could only nod in reply, treacherous nerves robbing her of intelligent speech as she wondered what he thought of her admission. And why she cared so much about his opinion. "Sometimes that is easier," he began, his sincerity evident, "to share such intimate things with someone you don't know. When you are grieving, it can be liberating to be in the company of strangers. There is no real fear of judgment among them."

"Precisely," Mary breathed, relieved that he understood so readily, yet confused by how he could know so well. "But how…" The truth of it unexpectedly slammed into to her, a cold shiver gripping her core as she dared to state what she suddenly knew to be true. "You have lost someone," Mary whispered, needing no confirmation from him but receiving it just the same as he looked out the window in front of him and nodded slowly.

"My wife," Charles confided, taking a moment before turning his gentle gaze back to her as an unwritten understanding was brokered between them.

She should have known. How had she not noticed before that there was hidden pain there, tucked away behind the laughter in the depths of his eyes? His words to her on the train, the absolute understanding he seemed to have of the sorrow and guilt she carried, his gentle compassion towards her when she could not muster the strength to keep any sort of composure. It had come from his own experience. Charles Blake had walked in her shoes.

"I am so sorry," Mary said, the depth of his pain so very real that it seemed to creep into her bones. She understood it much too well.

He gave her a half-grin that did not reach his eyes as he quietly responded, "So am I." "How long ago?" she asked, almost feeling like an intruder even as she traversed the same ground with him as he had with her just yesterday.

"Nearly five years," he replied, his voice steady as he took her in. "I will not lie to you, my lady. It is never easy, this journey that has been forced upon us, and not one that anyone would embark upon willingly." Charles then leaned forward a bit closer and laid his hand atop hers for a fleeting moment, sealing this new bond as he assured her, "But I can promise you that it does get better."

"It has to, doesn't it?" she reassured herself, her voice barely discernible over the wind's lament keening outside the vehicle. She realized that perhaps her heart was undergoing the beginnings of spring's thaw, newly fertile ground allowing fragile seeds of hope to take root and grow within her…the hope of a new life, one nourished by the love, pain and experiences of her past. And for one glorious moment, she could have sworn that she heard a lark's lyrical song echo in her ear.

"Thank you for that," Mary voiced, their shared pain suddenly forging a thread of closeness between them that shimmered as silver across her skin. "I am starting to believe it, you know."

"Then I am glad," he smiled, his thumb trailing a gentle course across her knuckles she felt all too keenly before releasing her had and starting the car. "I'll repeat it as often as necessary."

_Sometimes things of importance need to be repeated frequently._

And Mary was undeniably aware that she might now be ready to listen.

* * *

 

They arrived at Crawley House just a few minutes after departing her grandmother's residence. Charles parked in front, turning off the engine just as a threatening crash of thunder pealed overhead.

"I believe we made it just in time," Mary observed, noting that what blue had been left in the sky had been crowded out by a thick, ominous gray.

"I think you are correct," he agreed, his brow creasing in observation as he looked to the sky. "I have a feeling we may be in for quite a stormy night."

And he would be driving home in it. Her heart suddenly pounded in a most erratic way, her stomach instantly hollow as she asked hesitantly, "Must you drive back to York if the weather is too dangerous? I would not want you and your aunt to have…to…"

Oh, God. Mary could not finish her sentence. The unbidden terror she so despised that had stalked her since the moment her mother told her of Matthew's death was overtaking her, her breath coming again in rapid gasps, her hands trembling as she fought down the sensation of sheer panic. She could handle no more accidents.

"Do not distress yourself, Lady Mary," he assured her quickly, moving closer to her in hasty assurance. "If the weather is too dangerous for travel, I shall not put my aunt or myself in any unnecessary danger. We shall find a place to stay in town if needed."

"I am glad," she managed, her voice thick as she did her best to blink back unbidden tears, seeking and quickly locating his handkerchief in her bag and clasping it tightly within her grasp. "I'm sure Granny would not mind your company, at all."

He laughed softly to himself before admitting, "The question is would I survive hers?"

Unexpected laughter welled out of her as she wiped her eyes, relief washing over her like a salve.

"I'm not sure," she answered, casting him an amused glance. "That might depend on if you packed your battle armor."

"I knew there was something I left in York," he sighed, making her laugh again as another glorious release lightened her spirit and chased away any remnant shards of panic. "Do you happen to have a spare set lying about that I could borrow?"

"Oh, come now," Mary quipped, raising an eyebrow in his direction. "Have you not yet realized that we Crawley women have armor in our skin?"

"That would explain why you were so blasted cold back there," he returned, actually making tears of mirth spill down her cheeks as she held her stomach. How grand it felt to laugh again. A crackling flash of lightning brought all hilarity to an end, the impending storm rudely intruding upon their cocoon-like haven as Charles asked her sincerely, "Would you prefer me to accompany you to the door to retrieve George or to wait for you here?"

He would not force his company upon her in front of her mother-in-law until she was ready. Yes—he understood things very well.

"George will be glad to see you again," she voiced, making her decision as she realized with more than a touch of irony that as much as she had been dreading seeing this man again, she now felt unsteady at the thought of being without his company. "Would you come with me?"

A pause of wonder whispered in the space between them, both a bit unsure of what had been spoken and received.

"Of course I shall," he voiced, her request touching him even as it caught him off-guard, offering her a smile that just barely revealed his dimples in return. Charles removed the keys from the car's ignition, sliding them into his coat pocket as his words reached out to her. "I did promise your grandmother that I was at your disposal."

"You had better be careful what you promise Violet Crawley, Mr. Blake," Mary grinned, her voice dripping with candor. "I have no doubt that Granny will hold you to it."

His brown eyes danced in lyrical sincerity as he replied, "I certainly hope she does, Lady Mary."

They moved to the door, nearly running as they sought to get out of the punishing wind that simultaneously pulled them from and pushed them towards their intended destination. As they waited for Molesely to answer the door, Mary was quickly trying to decide exactly what she would reveal to Isobel about Mr. Blake's identity. Of course, Isobel was a highly intelligent woman—she might just deduce the truth with no assistance from her at all. There was no need for her to even bother concocting a plan, Mary suddenly realized, as she stepped back in astonishment when Isobel herself opened the door for them.

The older woman was somewhat flushed, a rather flustered yet relieved look upon her face as she cried, "Thank goodness you are here, Mary! I just rang for you at your grandmother's house."

This should not be. Why would Isobel be searching for her with such vehemence, even phoning her grandmother to find her unless… Dear, God! Vice-like panic seized her instantaneously, her heart constricting painfully as she looked around the room desperately for her son.

"What is it, Isobel? Where is George?"

"He is upstairs in the nursery with Dr. Clarkson," Isobel replied, taking Mary's hand and practically pulling her into the house, Charles following closely behind and shutting the door to the brewing tempest outdoors. "George has a fever."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George's illness and a storm bring about unexpected circumstances and a change of plans.

The gut-wrenching wail of her son sailed down from the nursery with celerity, binding itself firmly around Mary and pulling her up the steps in haste. George was sick. She tried to contain the utter panic that welled up from her stomach, telling herself that there was no need to yet worry. But no matter how many colds or fevers Mary had nursed him through, each time her child fell ill she was inwardly terrified.

She could not lose her son, too.

"Dr. Clarkson does not believe it's anything serious, Mary," Isobel soothed, walking briskly upon Mary's heels. "His fever is not terribly high—just enough to make him feel miserable and want his mother."

They reached the door of the nursery, Isobel turning her daughter-in-law towards her with gentle hands, noting the stricken look on her face.

"Do not be fearful, Mary. I am sure that there is nothing to worry about. Our boy just has a normal, childhood fever of some sort. He will be fine."

"You are not concerned?" Mary asked, her chest rising and falling too rapidly for her own comfort as she pressed down the urge to race into the nursery and scoop her child up in her arms.

"No," Isobel assured her, taking her hands within hers. "But I can understand why you are."

No further words were necessary between souls seared together by the fires of shared pain.

"Now calm yourself, my dear, and go to your son," Isobel soothed, giving Mary's hands one last squeeze of gentle reassurance. "I shall go and see to our guest."

"Mr. Blake," Mary breathed, nodding her head quickly. "Yes—thank you."

Isobel turned and descended the steps as Mary drew a deep breath and opened the door to the small nursery. George was sitting in the crib blubbering, his misery a stark contrast to the cheeriness deliberately infused into this room by his grandmother, his poor eyes red and swollen as he prepared to belt out another scream. His arms shot out to his mother in desperation the moment she entered the room, and Mary had him in her embrace within a second, clutching him to her chest as she felt heat radiating from her child. She looked instantly to Dr. Clarkson, her concern palpable from across the room.

"There's nothing to fear, Lady Mary," Clarkson soothed, taking two steps towards them as he patted George's head. "Your son has a middle ear infection. It is fairly common when children are cutting teeth. I seem to remember having to treat you for several of them when you were growing up."

She released the breath of crippling anxiety she had been holding unaware, kissing her son's temple as she rubbed his back.

"So it is not dangerous?"

"No," the doctor stated. "We just need to treat the symptoms and work to keep his fever under control. Tell your mother that nothing much has changed since she had to take care of your ears," he smiled. "Hydrogen peroxide drops in the ear twice a day, a hot water bottle compress to ease his discomfort, cool cloths and plenty of fluids for his fever."

Dr. Clarkson then looked meaningfully at Mary, his eyebrows lifting as he ordered, "And plenty of rest for his mother."

"I am perfectly well," Mary stated, dismissing his concern with a flick of an eyebrow as her eyes fixated upon her son who was clinging to her dress, continuing to sniff softly against her shoulder.

"I am serious, Lady Mary," Clarkson continued, his tone insistent as Mary raised her eyes to his. "You will do him no good if you wear yourself out. Sleep is hard to come by for a child who is suffering from ear pain, for pressure builds and the ear hurts more when he lies down. Master George will want to be held throughout the next few nights, so make sure you do not try to tend to him alone. Allow that nanny of yours and other members of your family to help you nurse him through this."

"Is that an order, Dr. Clarkson?" Mary inquired, her tone presenting a small but clear challenge to his advice.

"Yes, it is," he smiled in return placidly, rubbing George's fluffy head one more time before he stepped back, an unexpected burst of lightening drawing both of their gazes to the window . "Are you planning on returning to Downton before the storm breaks?"

Mary paused, registering his question quickly as she realized that all other thoughts had deserted her the moment she knew her child was ill. She quickly righted herself and answered, "Yes, as long as you think it's alright."

"It's fine," Dr. Clarkson assured her. "Travelling is no danger to his ears. But the night air would not be good for them, so I would be on my way as soon as possible. Especially before this rain comes."

"Thank you, doctor," Mary breathed, taking a moment to hold her child in solitude as Dr. Clarkson left the room. She stood immobile, relishing the closeness of her baby pressed against her heart as a most welcome calm settled within her limbs even as the outdoor elements continued to brew their tempest. Nothing had truly prepared her for the depth of feeling she would bear for this tiny extension of herself she had cradled deep within her body for nearly a year, this small yet complete human being who carried traits of both she and Matthew yet bore so much that simply marked him as himself.

An ear infection…nothing dangerous…no need to fear…the physician's words continued to work within her, untangling knots of needless worry still jumbled deep within. How odd, she mused, that the fury of the storm no longer frightened her as long as she carried with her the assurance that her son was safely tucked in her embrace, knowing that she could shelter him from the threat of lightening and thunder. But how she longed for the ability to protect him from absolutely any element that could do him harm, despising the fact that even mothers were not granted such power. This year had brutally taught her just how powerless she truly was, and the effect had been truly humbling.

Mary emerged from her ephemeral solitude with George moments later, discovering Isobel and Mr. Blake huddled together compactly in the center of the sitting room.

"Dr. Clarkson has just informed us that his ear is the culprit," Isobel stated, walking to Mary's side as she smoothed a lock of her grandson's dark hair across his forehead. "I suspected as much. He kept tugging at it ever so dreadfully when he awoke from his nap."

"Thank you for taking care of him and for summoning Dr. Clarkson," Mary stated, an unnecessary justification escaping her lips as she breathed, "I would have never left him if I had thought…"

"Hush, dear," Isobel interrupted serenely. "You did nothing wrong, Mary. And George will be as good as new in a few days."

The house shook as a wave of thunder seemed to assail it from every direction.

"I apologize for interrupting, but I believe we should go if we are to beat the storm to Downton, Lady Mary," Charles injected, taking a small step in Mary's direction as he held his hat in his hands.

"Of course," Mary agreed, leaning forward to kiss Isobel's cheek as she whispered, "Thank you, again."

A crash of lightening harshly illuminated the room as angry thunder blasted repeatedly outside, making George cry out as he grabbed his mother for protection. Charles gave her a knowing look as they made their way with haste towards the exit. Isobel saw them down the steps to the door, giving George one last kiss on his warm forehead before gingerly covering the boy with a downy blanket which he fought to remove from his head in protest.

"I shall phone Carson and let him know that you are on your way," she stated. "Please call tomorrow and let me know how our George is doing, Mary. And it has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blake. Thank you so much for seeing Mary and George safely home."

"It is my honor, Mrs. Crawley," Charles returned, taking the lead in guiding his newly appointed charges out the front door to the waiting car. George rested quietly upon the familiar sanctuary of his mother's chest as they traveled to Downton, the rain beginning to make its appearance as large, heavy drops began to splatter the windshield in a frenetic rhythm.

"I'm glad to know that it's nothing serious," Charles stated, watching the road warily as another flash of lightening rent the sky asunder. "But you can tell he is not feeling up to par. Poor little chap."

"I should have known he was coming down with something, as out of sorts as he was this morning," Mary stated, shaking her head slightly in consternation. "Perhaps if I had kept him in today…"

"He would still have gotten an ear infection," Charles interrupted, daring a weighted glance in Mary's direction. "You really put a lot on yourself, don't you Lady Mary?"

"What do you mean?" she shot back, her temper on edge as a lingering shred of worry for her son still pulsed in her breast.

"Just that you seem to have quite a knack for taking blame upon yourself for circumstances well beyond your control," he answered, slowing his speed as a strong wind gust made the car shake slightly.

"I see," she retorted, still in no humor to discuss this with him. "And when did you become such an expert on these matters?"

"Five years ago," he replied, his answer holding no reproach, but Mary feeling the sudden weight of it settle on her just the same. What had possessed her to ask such a heartless question?

"I am sorry. Please forgive me," she started, feeling utterly wretched for so thoughtlessly reminding him of his deceased wife. She of all people should know better.

"There's no need, my lady," Charles responded, his voice quite calm as he continued, "You have done nothing that warrants my forgiveness."

Oh, Dear God… Her sharp intake of her breath filled the car, making Charles turn towards her instantly in alarm.

"Are you alright? Is George…"

"Yes—yes, we are fine, Mr. Blake," she assured as steadily as she could, pressing her lips tightly together as she rode another wave of remembrance that filled her every crevice. "It is just…what you said…"

"I meant no offense, I assure you," Charles interrupted, clearly frustrated with himself for upsetting her in some fashion.

"And you did not offend," she attested, feeling steadier as she rooted herself firmly back in the present. "You just said something that sounded very much like something my husband once said to me."

"Oh," he breathed, understanding breaking instantly within him as he cast her a reassuring glance. "I see."

"He once told me that he would not forgive me because I had done nothing that needed his forgiveness," Mary shared, the haziness in her voice transporting her to a place and time so vividly cherished as one of the most priceless memories she possessed. "I thought I had lost him forever, that he would despise me for a mistake I had made in my past."

"I take it he surprised you," he interjected in a rather hushed tone, his heart vividly touched as he bore witness to the serene smile that radiated from her.

"Yes, he did," she replied tranquilly, drawing George to her even more closely as she revealed, "He asked me to marry him, instead."

"He sounds like a very intelligent man," Charles stated, chancing a glance in her direction. She was almost beaming without realizing it, her cheek resting softly on the head of her son as she clasped him tenderly to her heart. He left them in a precious silence, noticing how she seemed to be wrapping both herself and her child in the warm memories of the man they had lost. And he was content to remain on the fringes, observing them quietly whenever he could spare a glance from the road. But a truth settled upon him that he tried to chase away, even as he understood the futility his efforts. He had somehow already come to care for this woman, more so than he reasonably should after such a short acquaintance. It was utterly reckless and idiotic of him in many ways, for he knew Lady Mary Crawley was not yet ready to open her heart to another man. But he sensed that she was most decidedly a woman worth knowing better. And he refused to scare her away.

"How did she die?" Mary finally uttered, breaking the quiet lull they had created between them with measured hesitation. Charles did not answer immediately, knowing the answer would sting with what he had learned of her family's recent history from his aunt. But his silence unnerved Mary, making her concerned that perhaps she had asked too much of him. Just as an apology was forming upon her lips, his voice reached out to her, a huskiness tingeing its timbre as he answered with some difficulty.

"In childbirth."

Her heart simply broke for him as her thoughts instantly raced to her sister. Mary could still so clearly visual Sybil as seizure upon seizure racked her body just after giving life to her most precious daughter. The image of Tom's brokenness when he realized that his wife was forever lost to him was forever seared in her consciousness. And the face of her beloved Sybil as she lay frozen in death…

"Dear God, I am so sorry."

She clutched George to her breast even tighter, looking directly to this man beside her in a new light as she now understood that he bore as many scars as she. The past did leave marks, and she shuddered remembering the evidence of wounds that traversed Matthew's torso—a reminder of a half-life he been forced to endure in the unthinkably inhumane trenches carved into the earth. Her scars were invisible to the eye, but so tangibly seared into her very soul, and she could not help but wonder how she and Charles Blake would appear if it were their spirits that could be seen. How large would the gashes be that cut through her heart, just how garish the puckered marks that must mar every nerve she possessed? Mary continued to stare at Charles Blake in new wonder, emotionally unable to voice her next question, somehow already knowing that his child had not survived the traumatic birth that unfairly claimed his wife. He would have spoken of a son or daughter by now, she was certain of it.

Would the frame of his soul carry twice the number of horrific reminders as he had lost both spouse and offspring to the claws of unexpected death?

_You would think we would be used to young death by now._

She had at least been given George, Tom had Sweet Sybbie, but Charles Blake…

_He was a lucky man, then, to have a wife who loved him so deeply and such a handsome son. Many men never know such happiness._

His words to her on the train played back to her, words of kindness and reassurance meant to help calm her soul. She had snapped at him then in an attempt to bar him from her agony, yet she had just now intruded into his pain. She wanted to offer him a measure of the same comfort that he had so freely bestowed upon her, the desire to touch him in empathy, so similar to the need she had felt to trace Matthew's scars in reverence, was nearly overwhelming as she dared to reach a trembling hand in his direction.

"Ah, I believe we have made it, at last," Charles announced as Downton finally came into view, making Mary snatch her hand back as if she had ventured far too close to a fire. She could not look at him as they approached the great house slowly, wondering if he had seen her intimate gesture and praying that somehow he had not. But she received her answer when he suddenly took her errant hand and held in gently, stating with reassurance, "It is alright, my lady. I made my peace with their losses some time ago, although the wounds do still sting, sometimes more than others. You did nothing wrong in asking me."

She forced herself to look at him, trembling inside as she nodded in understanding and marveling that this particular fire from which she had withdrawn was soothing to the touch. How very unexpected. He then let go of her, parking the car right next to the door as Carson stepped out immediately with a large umbrella.

"Come, let us get your both inside," he insisted, stepping out of the car and moving quickly to assist her as Caron covered them all protectively from the storm. The quartet dashed into the great hall quickly, partially wet despite the covering of the umbrella.

"I am so glad that you have made it home safely," Cora greeted them hugging Mary and seeking permission to take her grandson. George allowed himself to be peacefully placed into his grandmother's arms, clearly quite comfortable there as he let out a small whimper and tugged the offending ear. "Isobel called a few minutes ago and told me about poor Georgie. Mrs. Hughes and I made sure that everything he needs is upstairs in the nursery so we can help our little man feel better."

"And where is Nanny Rogers?" Mary asked, more than a little surprised that the woman had not been at the door to meet them upon their arrival. Cora's expression along with her pause in answering alerted Mary immediately as a feeling of dread crept up her limbs.

"Nanny Rogers is gone," Cora stated, her face betraying just how very much she hated delivering such news to her daughter.

"What?" Mary inquired, her disbelief that this should happen tonight of all nights evident in her shocked tone.

"She received a phone call not long after you left. Her mother is dying, Mary, and she asked for permission to go to her at once," Cora responded, bouncing George in her arms to soothe him ask his sniffles of discomfort began to increase. "How could I possibly tell her no?"

"You couldn't," Mary sighed in acceptance, stroking her son's head in a vain hope that his fever had somehow miraculously disappeared. "Will she be coming back?"

"I don't believe so," Cora admitted, pressing her lips together slightly and kissing her grandson's forehead. "She said that she would more than likely need to stay on with her father and care for him after her mother is gone."

Mary thought for a moment before turning to Carson and stating, "Carson, please have a dinner tray sent to me in the nursery. I shall stay with George through dinner and into the night."

"I shall be happy to do so if that is what you desire, my lady," the butler began, "but there is someone who has already asked to care for George while dinner is being served so you could dine with the family, someone of whom I believe you will approve."

"Who is it?" Mary inquired, interest and disbelief drawing her brows together as she knew that Carson's approval was difficult to come by indeed.

"Anna," Carson replied, a small smile crossing his lips when he spoke the woman's name. "She is up in the nursery awaiting your arrival."

A feeling of rightness settled in Mary's chest at the thought of Anna tending to George. Ear infections were not contagious, so he would be of no danger to her and her unborn child. And Mary trusted her with a depth reserved for very few people, knowing without a doubt that Anna would send for her immediately if she were needed and that she would treat George just as tenderly as her own babe still nestled in her womb.

"Alright," Mary agreed, "but only if it is not too much for her. I would not want to wear her out."

"I think she can handle rocking a baby through dinner, Mary," Cora smiled, kissing her grandson's warm head again as she continued, "Besides, it will be good practice for her."

Lady Grantham's attention then suddenly turned to their unexpected guest, smiling at the man with gratitude as she stated, "Mr. Blake, I am so very sorry that you have not been greeted properly. Please accept our thanks for the service you have given to Lady Mary and our precious George. Carson will show you to your room and will find you a suitable change of clothes for dinner so that yours can be tended to and made right for tomorrow."

"Thank you, Lady Grantham," Charles began, obviously taken aback at this turn of events, "but there is no need to provide me with a room or clothing. I must return to my aunt in Downton immediately."

"Nonsense," Cora replied, raising her eyebrows in a smooth gesture as she showered him with a winning smile. "I have already spoken with my mother-in-law, and everything is settled. Nobody wants you out on the roads this evening in a storm such as this, so your aunt is very happily settled at the Dowager House, and we are delighted to have you as our guest here at Downton."

As if on cue, a blinding burst of lightening struck somewhere in the near vicinity, showering the great hall with a flash of white light followed by a nearly deafening roar of thunder that actually shook the windows. Lady Grantham looked towards Charles, a half-smile crossing her face, making Mary realize that the weather seemed to be responding to her mother's direction, almost as if she had conjured up this very farce to force Mr. Blake to remain at Downton a while longer. Her revelation was followed by the unmistakable patter of hail pelting off of the ground, roof and windows. No—Lady Grantham could not have scripted a more ironic scenario if she had tried.

Cora then turned and walked George up the stairs giving Mr. Blake no opportunity to argue any further. Mary turned to him, an apology in her eyes as she stated, "You might as well agree. Mama will never let you hear the end of it if you leave now."

"Armor in your skin, indeed," he stated, giving her smile that forced her to lower her eyes momentarily before she rebutted.

"Actually, Mama is American. I believe it is steel that runs through her veins."

"Whatever element I am up against, I know when I've been beaten," Charles replied, raising his hand in mock surrender, giving her a meaningful look as he voiced, "I shall see you at dinner, then."

"Yes, I suppose you shall," she responded, feeling suddenly unsteady as the realization that he would be staying so very close to her made its way through her body. It could prove to be a very long night, indeed.

Mary tilted her chin up in her best attempt to appear unfazed, turning towards the stairs and the path that would take her to her son. But as a small piece of her consciousness both hoped and wondered if a certain pair of dark eyes was following her as she ascended. And they most decidedly were.

* * *

 

When Mary arrived in the nursery, Anna already had George comfortably seated in her arms, his toy rabbit clutched tightly in his fists as he commenced to chewing on the poor animal's ear. His cheeks were too red for Mary's liking, and the slight droopiness in his eyes revealed his discomfort. She was by his side in a moment.

"I couldn't quite fit him and the Teddy Bear on my lap now," Anna laughed, glancing at her rather rounded abdomen in acceptance.

"It's a wonder you have any lap at all," Mary returned, smiling fondly at Anna as she knelt down to stroke George's head. "Are you certain you're alright, Anna? I don't want to cause any problems for you or the baby."

"We're fine, my lady, I promise," Anna assured her. "Mrs. Hughes will be checking in on us every so often to make sure that we don't need anything. And Mr. Carson has even volunteered to lend a hand if we need him."

Mary smiled thoughtfully. Carson would do absolutely anything for George.

"And your dinner?" Mary asked quickly, concern crossing her face at the thought of Anna being hungry.

"I have already eaten, mi'lady, so do not worry," she responded with assurance. "Mrs. Patmore fixed me quite a plate when she heard that I was to sit with Master George. I feel as stuffed as a Christmas goose." She grinned, stroking George's back as she continued, "Mr. Bates will be taking his supper downstairs with the rest of the staff and will wait for me so we can go home together. So it's all settled."

"Yes, it is," Cora intervened, giving Anna a look that would not allow an argument, "however, you and Mr. Bates will be staying here tonight. We are having a room prepared for you, as well. No one wants you getting out in that storm any more than we want Mr. Blake to do so." She then raised a hand in Anna's direction as the younger woman opened her mouth to speak, silencing her gently. "It is all done, and we are more than happy to have you back in Downton for the night."

"Thank you, mi'lady," Anna replied. "That is very kind of you."

"No, it's just the right thing to do," Mary returned, standing as she kissed her son's soft cheek and effectively cutting off any chance for Anna to protest. "I'll come back to check on you both after I have changed, and yes, I think I can manage on my own for once."

Anna chuckled softly as Mary turned to leave. "Good luck, mi'lady," she offered, her face bright with a smile as Mary gave her a rueful glance. "I did lay out a dress for you before I got settled."

"Thank you, Anna," Mary rebuffed good-naturedly, tilting her chin as she walked to her room. True to her word, a dress of deep purple was lying on her bed. Mary took the fabric in her fingers, somehow noticing its true texture for the first time as the material slid across her skin. She stared at it, leaning forward to test its scent, wondering if any part of him could still be attached to the silky threads. A smile cam unbidden as the memory of the last time she had worn this particular dress played across heart. It had been one of Matthew's favorites. In fact, they had barely made it down to dinner one evening as he kept trying to divest her of the garment, making her smile as she playfully warded off his advances. She grew warm in remembrance, grasping the dress to her chest and closing her eyes.

_You'll make me untidy._

"That will look lovely on you, my dear," Cora stated, making Mary jump slightly as her mother stood smiling in the doorway. "I always thought purple looked stunning on you."

"So did Matthew," Mary breathed, turning to glance at her reflection in the mirror as she continued to clasp the dress close to her.

"I believe he would have thought you beautiful in a burlap sack," Cora grinned, entering the bedroom and closing the door behind her. "He loved you so much, Mary."

"I know," she whispered, breathing in his presence before turning to face her mother, her misty eyes glowing in the soft light of the room as the pulsing of heavy rain sheeted against her windows. "Well, are you going to help me get dressed or not?" Mary asked quickly, doing her best to crowd out the heady memory of Matthew's hands moving freely upon her and focus upon her very present reality.

"I'm certainly willing to give it a try," Cora laughed, moving towards her daughter with outstretched arms. The Crawley women managed getting Mary changed and ready for dinner reasonably well, finally inspecting their handiwork carefully in the looking glass.

"Not bad, Mama," Mary admitted, turning to her mother with a nod of approval. "You could probably find a post as a lady's maid if the need ever arises."

"Let's hope it never does," Cora laughed, smoothing down the back of Mary's dress and adjusting the jeweled clip just over her ear. "There now, I think you'll do."

She then turned back to Mary as she made her way towards the hallway.

"I'm going to make sure that Mr. Blake has everything that he needs before I go downstairs. I do hope the suit I sent for him works out alright." Mary snapped her head around, her brows drawn together in inquiry.

"Whose suit did you send to him?" "Tom offered up one of his," Cora replied. "He was very thoughtful about it."

"Tom?" Mary cried out, looking at her mother incredulously. "Tom is a full head shorter than Charles Blake, or haven't you noticed?"

"Apparently you have, my dear," Cora mused, raising an eyebrow towards her eldest in interest. "But what would you have me do, Mary? One of your father's suits would be much too large around the girth for him, and I couldn't ask one of the servants."

Mary shook her head, breathing rapidly as she took heavy steps towards her closet, apprehension making her pulse jump as she neared the wardrobe. Dear God, could she really do what she was thinking? Half of her could not fathom what she was actually planning, somehow adjusting automatically to the half that was pushing her onward. Mary swallowed, as if in doing so all apprehension would simply vanish. But she held her head straight and moved forward.

Yes—she would do this, she could. It was time.

She emerged from the closet a moment later, an evening suit held in her trembling hands as she presented it as an offering to her mother.

"Here," Mary stated, her voice no more than a husky whisper as she stared into her mother's eyes widened by utter shock. "This should be sufficient for Mr. Blake. It will be much closer to his size."

"Mary—are you certain about this?" Cora whispered, disbelief etched on her face as she kept shifting her gaze from the suit in her arms to the face of her daughter. Mary nodded silently several times, staring at the garment as she touched it reverently.

"Yes—I am sure." Her eyes flew to her mother's as she grasped Cora's arm in a final plea. "Please, you must not tell him. He will never agree to wear it if he knows. Promise me, Mama."

"If you are sure," Cora responded, staring into Mary's eyes as she watched for signs of second-thoughts.

"I am sure. Matthew would have wanted to do something helpful for the man who brought his wife and son safely home, wouldn't he?"

Cora looked into the dark, vulnerable eyes of her daughter fighting so desperately to be strong, feeling her struggle yet proud of her small step of courage. She raised a hand to Mary's cheek and smiled.

"Yes, my darling. He would have, indeed." She paused meaningfully as she finally ventured, "And he would be very proud of you right now, too."

The words circled around Mary, finally settling as a soft cape around her shoulders enfolding her in a gentle peace as she breathed, "Yes, I believe that he would."

"I shall take the suit to Mr. Blake," Cora began, "and I promise not to tell him that it belonged to Matthew," she finished, replying to Mary before the words had been able to escape her daughter's open mouth. Mary sat softly on her bed once her mother had left the room, her legs obstinately refusing to hold her upright as the shock over what she had just done firmly descended upon her. She wrapped her arms around herself as she looked around the room, suddenly feeling as if he would appear any minute and embrace her from behind as he had done so many times. She closed her eyes, imagining his warm breath on her neck, the touch of his lips right behind her ear on that spot that drove her mad. His fingertips would then slide almost imperceptibly across her shoulder-blades, teasing the straps of her dress as she would moan in encouragement.

Dear God, she missed him! Her every pore was tingling at the memory of his touch. A clap of thunder broke her warm reverie, making Mary nearly jump out of her pulsating skin. She stood, catching her breath and rubbing her neck as she began to refocus her mind on the present. The temptation dangled enticingly before her, to simply open the drawer and clasp his picture to her heart, to weep and to remember as she had so many times before. But she hesitated, drawing herself up intentionally, pulling back her tears, and casting a glance once again at her reflection in the mirror. She was not the same woman she had been before Matthew had left her, but neither was she the hollow shell that had returned her stare from the mirror for months on end. No—Mary felt like a new creature, just making her emergence into the world on wobbly legs uncertain of what she would find there. Everything was new, brilliant, enticing, and frightening, as if she had truly just emerged from a world of black and white and fallen into a land where everything was painted in the brightest and most vivid colors imaginable. The sensations that pulsed through her veins both thrilled and terrified her, making her want to run forward into this new territory and retreat simultaneously to the world she had known.

_You need to stop torturing yourself, my lady, and live your life._

_One day you will be ready to move on, and I for one will be glad for it._

So would Matthew.

_Be happy, Mary._

The voices of three different men now resounded in her mind, firing her determination and settling a peace upon her heart. She did not have to take an entire journey in one leap. No. She would take another step forward…just one…and see where that led her. And if she was pleased by what she discovered, then perhaps she would take another. It may not be a perfect plan or one that would astonish the cleverest of mortals. But it was the beginning of a fresh start, one she felt the need to grasp. And for tonight, that was more than enough


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Blake's dinner with the Crawleys turns into an evening he won't soon forget.

Dinner was a rather subdued affair with only Robert, Cora, Tom, Mary and Charles in attendance as the storm showed no intention of abating outside. Mary noted with absolutely no modicum of surprise that Charles had been seated next to her and across from her mother, which meant only one thing: They were under scrutiny.

She should not be astonished by this fact. After all, her mother had spoken with Granny on the telephone earlier, and Mary somehow doubted that they had discussed only sleeping arrangements and the weather. There was no doubt that Violet Crawley had delighted in spilling all of her suspicions on Mary's connection to Charles Blake into Cora's willing ears. And then Mary had lent the man Matthew's suit. Her mother must be positively rabid with curiosity at the strange turn of events.

As if on cue, Cora looked up at her daughter, Mary quickly quirking an eyebrow in her direction as her mother responded by raising both of hers in feigned innocence. Mary simply rolled her eyes in response, Tom catching some of these proceedings but having little idea of what to make of them. Tom also was unsure of what to think of the fact that Mr. Charles Blake was wearing one of Matthew's suits—and at Mary's insistence. When Cora had hurriedly confided the fact to both him and Robert before the other two had come down for dinner, Tom was certain that he had surely misunderstood. But he had not missed the forced smile that Mary quickly donned when she first saw the man dressed in the attire that had belonged to her husband or the way that her eyes widened ever-so-slightly when she made eye contact with Mr. Blake. And he was most acutely aware of the fact that his sister-in-law was currently having a difficult time keeping her hands steady. He was certain that they were clasped tightly in her lap around the napkin, a tell-tale sign of high emotion in this woman who desperately needed to feel in control. He was concerned about her…and he knew that she would hate that.

The truth was that Mary was having a difficult time keeping her composure in check. Every time she glanced to her right at Charles Blake, it seemed to her that two men were sitting there at once looking back at her: one very much alive, dark and so very tangible and the other invisible, so heartrendingly out of reach yet present nonetheless. Each on his own filled her with such an odd mixture of peace and uneasiness, but combined as they were in her over-taxed mind, the effect was similar to that of veritable whirlwind, competing for her attention in a manner that left her absolutely exhausted. Oh, she had not counted on this…this sensation of wanting to literally crawl out of her skin and make sense of everything. But there would be no opportunity for that until dinner was over… And they had just made it through the first course.

It was almost more than she could stand, but it had come about at her request. So Mary resorted to making as little conversation and eye contact as possible, praying that everyone would believe that it was all on George's account. But somehow, she knew better. The only person at the table who did not know whose suit he was wearing was Charles Blake himself. Everyone else was paying her entirely too much attention. And she prayed desperately that she did not give herself away as she had at Granny's earlier.

"So, Mr. Blake, I understand that you just returned from India," Robert began trying to learn more about this man who had shown up with his daughter and grandson and was now sitting at his table wearing Matthew's attire. A fact that had him completely flabbergasted.

"Yes, Lord Grantham, that is correct," Charles replied, sipping his water as the second course was brought around.

"And what are you dealings there, may I ask?" Robert continued, looking towards Mary in an attempt to discern her thoughts.

"Horses, actually," Charles replied, actually earning a curious glance from Mary at the mention of her most favored creature. "My father purchased and founded a horse farm just out of outside of Bombay several years ago."

"Do you work with a specific breed?" Tom ventured, looking to the man with interest.

"My father specialized in Cleveland Bays," Charles answered, casting a return glance at Mary who resumed studying her plate as if it bore an original Van Gogh.

"Those are very fine, indeed," Robert remarked. "A breed that is a true testament to the quality and standards of Yorkshire." He leaned forward a bit and inquired with interest, "Who manages your estate for you while you are away? You must have someone quite trustworthy to embark upon such a journey as you have."

"I sold the farm just before I returned to England," Charles stated calmly, his answer once again hesitantly drawing Mary's eyes towards him as he continued. "I had no desire to remain in India after my father passed away, so I sold everything with the exception of six horses and returned home."

"I do say, my dear boy, that was a bold move, indeed," Robert exclaimed, gazing at Charles Blake with renewed interest. "I do hope that you obtained a fair price for the place."

A begrudging smile crept across his face as he answered, "I received a very generous sum, Lord Grantham. More than enough to purchase and establish my own horse farm here in Yorkshire."

"Is that your intention, then?" Mary asked, unable to help herself even though she drew the attention of everyone in the room simply because it was the first time she had spoken a word since arriving at the table. "Is that why you kept the six horses and brought them with you?"

His gaze softened when it reached her eyes as he confirmed, "Yes, Lady Mary. Those are my intentions."

"Mary adores horses, don't you dear?" Cora put in, inspecting her daughter closely for her reaction. "With the exception of George, her stallion Diamond is her favorite companion here at Downton."

"I would welcome a visit from Lady Mary once I have things set up and running properly," Charles stated, missing the slight stain of pink that flushed across Mary's cheeks as he was addressing her mother, "I am sure that she would have plenty to offer in how to run the place." He then cleared his throat slightly, understanding that he had just revealed too much and corrected, "All of you would be most welcome for a visit, indeed."

But Cora had missed nothing: not the blush of her daughter, not the slight hint of vulnerability in Mr. Blake's eyes when offering her the invitation, and most decidedly not the air of electricity that hovered between the pair, though neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge its existence. Giving Charles a charming smile as she pondered the situation playing out in front of her, Cora replied evenly, "How very generous of you, Mr. Blake. I am sure we would all be delighted, wouldn't we, Mary?"

"Yes, Mr. Blake," Mary managed, her voice barely discernable. "Your invitation is most kind, indeed."

Charles smiled at her words, frustrated by the fact that she was seemingly resolute to do nothing more than cast an occasional glance in his direction. Had he offended her in some fashion? Something was most decidedly distressing her this evening, and he suspected that it involved more than George's ears.

"Will you stay with Cleveland Bays?" Tom inquired, drawing Mr. Blake's attention, "or do you plan on diversifying a bit?"

"It is interesting that you ask, Mr. Branson, for I actually would like to introduce some new blood to the line," Charles replied, an infections grin breaking across his face. "I am hoping to travel to America in the very near future to visit some of the Thoroughbred farms in Kentucky. The horses being bred there are truly magnificent creatures, and they can breed well with the Bays." He then paused, taking a sip of wine before he continued, "And I did manage to bring one Marwari with me."

"A Marwari?" Mary exclaimed, sitting taller and actually meeting his eyes at the mention of such a rare breed of horse. "Truly? You have a Marwari here in England? A mare or a stallion?"

"A filly," Charles answered, very pleased at her obvious enthusiasm as he continued, "Kala is a personal favorite of mine. She is quite a spirited and vibrant girl, and I must admit that she certainly keeps me on my toes."

"I say, was she difficult to come by?" Robert inquired, truly engaged in the topic of this rare breed. "Or are they more plentiful in India then we are led to believe?"

"She was a rare find, indeed, Lord Grantham," Charles replied, shaking his head slightly as he continued, "The man who eventually sold her to me loved her nearly as much as his own daughters. It took some time, a vast amount of patience and quite a decent amount of money to convince him that I was worthy of her, I must say."

A small ripple of laughter spilled across the table as the men chuckled at his comment, Cora simply smiling in polite agreement as she kept watch over Mr. Blake with keen eyes.

"Well, are you?" Mary asked softly, her question somehow breaching a wall in the conversation as he turned and gave her his full attention. "Worthy of her, I mean, Mr. Blake?"

All sound at the table ceased immediately.

"I'm honestly not sure," he replied honestly, his encompassing gaze making her throat dry although she had just taken a sip of water, "but I do hope she thinks so. She is a truly magnificent creature."

Her gaze fluttered, brushing his for a few blessed seconds as she dared, "Then you had best remain in top form, Mr. Blake. Creatures such as she can often be temperamental, you know."

"Yes, I do know," Charles smiled, his dimples hitting her with pinpoint clarity as he finished, "but I am certain she is worth it, Lady Mary."

Her eyes flew back to her plate.

And Tom nearly dropped his fork. Mary was flirting with this man! Yes—with some trepidation, to be sure, but flirting just the same. If he had not witnessed the exchange himself, he would have never dared to believe it. His eyes met Cora's fleetingly from across the table, hers sparkling with intrigue as his rounded in utter disbelief. He returned his attention to his meal, trying his best to think of something clever to say to break the crackling silence that had settled over the table. He needn't have bothered. A master of diplomacy and conversation took that burden from his shoulders with ease, steering the topic of discussion exactly where she willed it to go.

"Kala is a lovely name, Mr. Blake," Cora stated. "Does it mean anything?"

Another brief silence hovered over them, all eyes again focused upon Charles awaiting his answer.

"Yes, Lady Grantham," he replied, clearing his throat with a modicum of discomfort as he smiled through the subtle scrutiny. "Her name means Dark Beauty. Kala is the Hindi word for black."

Mary hastily took a drink of wine with unsteady hands, re-focusing her eyes squarely upon the napkin in her lap as goose bumps pimpled her flesh.

"How fitting," Cora responded, taking a small bite as she smiled at Mr. Blake sweetly, her daughter shooting her a look of warning that Cora took in stride. Dear God—would the third course ever arrive?

As dinner finally came to an end, Mary excused herself quickly, dashing up the stairs to check on Anna and George. She could stand the thick tension building within her no longer, threads of confusion clinging to her and making her prickle inside as she tried to force all thoughts of anyone save her son from her mind. She stepped inside of her bedroom for a moment of solitude, trying to compose her thoughts and emotions as one hand covered her forehead. She closed her eyes and simply focused on the act of breathing. There…that was better. A quiet knock roused her attention, drawing her to the door to answer with some hesitation,

"Who is it?"

"It's Anna," a friendly voice responded, prompting Mary to open the door and let the welcome intruder inside. "Your mother is with George now," she began, answering Mary's first question before she needed to ask it. "She assumed you would want to tend to him yourself for a while, but she thought you might like to change first."

"I'm planning on staying with him the rest of the night, so I suppose my sleep attire would be most appropriate," Mary agreed, allowing Anna to begin helping her out of the dress. "Although I doubt I shall actually get much of that tonight."

"I can check on you later if you like," Anna volunteered, unhooking the clasps on the back of Mary's dress.

"Absolutely not," Mary insisted, removing the clip from her hair as her dress slid off of her shoulders. "You need a full night's sleep, and if anyone disturbs you, including Mr. Bates, they shall have to contend with me."

"You spoil me, mi'lady," Anna grinned. She paused, her hands stilling and drawing Mary's full attention as a look of melancholy crossed her face before stating haltingly, "I shall miss being your lady's maid." Their eyes met wordlessly in the mirror, reflecting their shared sorrow at the very thought of it. It was a topic they had avoided discussing but they both understood was inevitable. Once Anna's child was born, she would devote her time to her baby and would be unable to complete the duties of a true lady's maid. And that thought distressed Mary almost more than she could bear, so much so that she had not even had the nerve to begin searching for a replacement, and she was running out of time. Losing someone so precious to her, even if only to a cottage that was walking distance from Downton was just too painful to even consider.

"I shall miss you terribly, Anna. I'm not quite sure just how I shall cope without you." Mary turned to face her, her brow creased as she hesitantly broached an idea that had taken root before dinner, one she hoped Anna would at least consider. "I have wondered, though," she began, finding speech difficult as she knew her idea to be unorthodox, "if you might consider becoming George's nanny."

Anna's eyes flew wide, her expression leaving Mary in doubt of just how much she had been taken by surprise by the request. She doubted that Mrs. Bates could have looked any more shocked if she had just been offered an invitation to dine with the king.

"You could bring your baby with you, of course," Mary continued, hoping to allay any doubts she might have before she could speak them. "We can easily fit another crib in the nursery here, and they could grow up together. Don't you see just how well this could work?"

Anna's chest began rise and fall at a slightly quickened rate, her eyes glistening as she managed, "Do you mean it? Are you really certain about this? This isn't usually done, mi'lady, hiring your lady's maid as your nanny, I mean."

"As if I give a fig about how things are supposed to be done," Mary responded, raising an eyebrow in Anna's direction. "I'm much more concerned with George's future and your companionship." She paused momentarily, her uncertainty of Anna's response clouding her eyes as she continued, "I cannot think of anyone I would rather help me raise my son than you, Anna." She paused a moment before offering, "You are truly the best person I know."

A smile crept across Anna's face as her tears spilled over onto her cheeks. "Thank you so much, mi'lady," she exclaimed as the two women embraced each other, a wordless acknowledgement of the true relationship forged between them. "I shall have to discuss it with Mr. Bates, of course, and I wouldn't be able to start immediately," she continued as she drew back and quickly fetched Mary's nightgown.

"Of course not," Mary agreed. "You shall need time to get your strength back and for your baby to grow a bit. We could hire someone on a temporary basis until you are ready. But please consider it, at least."

"I shall, trust me," Anna assured her, still unable to comprehend that she had been offered such a post. They suddenly could not contain the bursts of laughter that sprung out of them as the spark of an idea actually became a real possibility, easing some of the pain that had been flitting in the corners of their minds. Yes—it just might work after all.

After she had successfully changed for the night and sent Anna on her way, Mary crept stealthily to the nursery, careful that the men were not wondering the hallway as she made haste to reach her son. She knocked quietly, walking in to discover her mother reading _hTe Little Red Hen_ to George as he tried to chime in, "Do Myself!"

"He looks better," Mary began, walking towards the pair rocking in momentary contentment and placing a hand on his forehead. "But he is still warm."

"Yes, but not hot, thankfully," Cora returned, standing carefully with her precious charge as she passed him to his mother. "I put the peroxide drops in his ears already, but I believe he is getting hungry. Mrs. Hughes is bringing up a bottle of warm milk for him to see if he will take it."

"Thank you, Mama," Mary returned, taking her seat in the rocking chair as George willingly snuggled up against her.

"I should go down and check on the how the men are doing," Cora stated, still threading her grandson's locks through her fingers. "We did leave them to their own devices rather hastily, I'm afraid."

"I believe they can manage," Mary remarked as she leaned down to retrieve George's Teddy Bear from the floor beside her.

"Yes, I'm sure that they can," Cora agreed, "but that is not the point."

"Then pray, what is the point?" Mary inquired, already quite suspicious of the answer but finding herself unusually curious to hear her mother's response.

"The point is that Mr. Blake brought you and George safely home in a storm, that he was basically stranded here for doing so, and then we deserted him after dinner, poor man." Cora paused and looked at her daughter thoughtfully. "I just want to make sure that he knows that he is most welcome here."

"Well, when you put it like that," Mary quipped, her attention suddenly distracted by her son as he began to whimper unhappily. She raised him up so his head was lying contentedly on her shoulder, rubbing his back in the manner that always seemed to soothe him. "Please thank him for me, Mama," she requested, keeping her voice even as she rocked her child. "And apologize to him for my absence after dinner. Let him know that George demanded my attention."

"I shall do so," Cora replied, "but I most certainly know who commanded his attention this evening."

"Mama," Mary began, knowing that she had no valid defense but not ready to discuss any details of Charles Blake with her mother."He was a kind and courteous guest who entertained all of us this evening. I cannot imagine why you think I captured his interest more than anyone else at the table."

"Oh, Mary," her mother laughed, Cora's expression letting her daughter know that her contrived explanation sounded just as ludicrous to her ears as it had to her own. "His attention was so focused upon you and the fact that you would barely even look at him that I think Carson could have overseen dinner in his nightcap and slippers, and Mr. Blake would not have noticed."

"I believe you are overstating the facts," Mary tried, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage as she continued to rock her son.

"And I believe that you are clearly out of your mind if you think that for one minute I am buying the story that the two of you met a few hours ago at your grandmother's house," Cora returned, her gaze as direct as her statement as she looked at her daughter.

"Please, Mama," Mary pleaded, her ire deflating as George fussed against her neck. "Can we not discuss this now?"

Cora acquiesced to her daughter's request and walked towards the door to the nursery, turning once more towards Mary as she observed, "It is your story to tell, Mary, whenever you are ready to do so. I shall not try to force it out of you." Mary quickly shot her a disbelieving glance to which Cora responded, "But I do like him, and I think you do, too."

Mary cast another look in her mother's direction, refusing to rise to the bait offered her as she continued to comfort her son in silence. Cora hesitated but a moment before making her exit, a look of hesitant wonder overtaking her face as she gently shut the door behind her. Her daughter had discovered that she could feel attraction for a man besides Matthew—a fact that was simply astonishing! And whether or not anything developed between Mary and Charles Blake, at least her daughter's senses were stirring again, proving to her that life could actually begin anew for her and for her son. Cora smiled to herself, offering up a short prayer of gratitude as she absorbed the beauty of this one small miracle while her offspring rocked another in her arms on the other side of the nursery door. 

* * *

 

He awoke too early as he had so often since returning to England, his body still not completely adjusted to the changes in time and climate and therefore hesitant to permit him a sound sleep. He had only had three or four nights that he had slumbered without waking since returning to Europe, often rousing fitfully as his mind refused to settle into blissful oblivion. The responsibility of caring for his aunt weighed heavily upon him as he came to understand that now it was his opportunity to bestow upon her the same care and tenderness she had shown him throughout his life. Without Aunt Catherine, his life would have been devoid of any type of nurturing affection, and he truly prayed that he was up to the task of giving her the care she so deserved. But he feared disappointing her, as he had continually disappointed his father, a fact that still plagued him though he was loathe to admit it to anyone, even himself.

Of course, he knew that part of his difficulty in sleeping tonight had nothing to do with his aunt, his father or even his life in India for that matter, and everything to do with a certain woman who had so unexpectedly crossed paths with him twice during the past two days. A woman whose eyes and spirit had completely captured his attention and interest in a manner he had not experienced in far too long. And she was at this moment sleeping under the same roof as he.

Lady Mary Crawley was still such an enigma, a woman still obviously mourning the untimely death of a husband she loved to her very core. A lady with a quick intellect, a fear of trusting people, and—he suspected—a passionate nature underneath the cool demeanor she so desperately tried to manifest. But it had been her eyes that truly arrested him where he stood as he accidentally opened the door to her compartment on that train—eyes nearly black with sorrow, with guilt, and with desperation to feel some measure of hope again in her life. He had instantly recognized such feelings as they had so dominated the past few years of his life. But Lady Mary had been given a son who relied upon her care, a precious life to mold that had kept her from allowing herself to spin hopelessly on the downward spiral that had squandered precious years away from his own life. And he truly admired her for that.

No—sleep would not come easily again tonight, especially as the storm continued outside, albeit more subdued than it had raged earlier. Charles dared a glance at the clock on the wall, both needing and dreading to see the time that seemingly mocked him. Yes—3:20 a.m. Perhaps a book would dull his senses, chase away the ghosts that could still plague him at night, and at least allow him a bit of rest between this witching hour and dawn. Lord Grantham had graciously offered the use of his library while drinking their port after dinner, and Charles decided that he would take him up on his generosity, albeit at a much less orthodox time of day than the Earl had surely intended. He donned the richly hewn dressing gown that most assuredly had to belong to Lord Grantham himself judging by the fit, making him wonder just whose suit he had been offered on loan for dinner. It was decidedly not Tom Branson's—not by a long-shot—and he would also wager that it did not belong to Robert Crawley. He silently made his way down the corridor towards the stairs, still attempting to puzzle out a solution to this small mystery when his attention was distracted from his task on hand entirely.

He could hear George crying.

The small, pitiful sound beckoned him from the path he had intended into a route towards the cry's origin, following his senses until he stood undeniably at the door to the nursery. He wondered if his mother still tended to him, or if someone else had come to relieve her and allow her some sleep. He wanted to knock, hesitating as he considered the response if indeed it was Lady Mary who answered his summons. After her reluctance to engage in any sustained conversation with him at dinner, he was unsure of whether or not his presence would be welcome in her son's nursery—a place of privacy, a possible sanctuary from the grievous loss that had been inflicted upon both mother and child. But as the boy continued to wail, Charles knew that he would not retreat from him—or her, for that matter. If she had indeed been caring for the child throughout the night, then she would be in dire need of some rest, whether she approved of his intrusion or not.

Having made his decision, he then raised his hand and quietly knocked upon the thick wood, reasoning that he would bear her anger in stride if it meant he could offer her some sleep. Her confusion at seeing him standing there when she cracked the door open was as obvious as the utter exhaustion in her eyes. She had not slept at all—he was certain of it.

"What are you doing here?" Mary asked, clearly astonished at the appearance of Charles Blake at the nursery door.

"I heard George crying," he answered, looking at her with concern.

"From your room?" she asked incredulously, obviously dubious of the fact before the words ever left her mouth.

"No—from the hallway," he began, gazing upon her fragile complexion as he continued, "I was making my way to the library to borrow some reading material."

"Then you have veered dreadfully off course," she stated flatly, the shadows smudged under her eyelids creasing as she finished, "Good-night, Mr. Blake."

"Lady Mary, might I come in for a moment?" he queried, his obvious concern for the pair of them staring back at her as his voice delayed her in shutting him out of the room. Mary's brows drew together in contemplation as she considered his request. The last time a man besides Matthew had entered her room, nearly catastrophic repercussions that had haunted her for years had ensued. But this was the nursery—not her bedroom, Mary reasoned, and she was not the somewhat naïve and reckless girl that had been afraid to cry out for her own honor ten years ago.

And Charles Blake was not Kemal Pamuk.

Blake had asked for her permission to enter the room and stood nonthreateningly in the hallway as he awaited her consent rather than sliding his way into her room bent on seduction. And Mary gave him her answer by slowly stepping back just far enough to allow him entrance, her gaze still slightly unsure as she followed his every move with eyes wide open. His stature seemed to fill the very room as she realized with a small start that she was not used to seeing a man in here. Yes, her father, Tom and Carson would stop by, but their presence was not a constant one, not like that of her mother or even Anna.

George noticed it, too, his sobbing ceasing as he took in the unknown yet somehow familiar person standing in his room. He suddenly held his arms out towards him, nearly leaping out of his mother's embrace at such a speed that Charles had to take a rather large step in his direction to catch the lad in time. George looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes still wet with tears, his ruddy cheeks wet to the touch as his dimpled hands reached out to touch either side of his face. Mr. Blake's expression of absolute surprise quickly transformed into one of tender consideration, making George bold enough to reach out and play with his nose, just as he had on the train.

Mary stood frozen, observing it all in a mixture of wonder and utter frustration. She had been trying to no avail to soothe her inconsolable child for hours now, walking him, reading to him, singing, cooing, rocking…anything she could possibly do to comfort him and allow both of them to rest. But at the very moment when she would allow herself to truly think that he was finally asleep, he would force himself awake, crying over his discomfort, his fever, and simply the fact that he was exhausted. Her patience had worn uncomfortably thin, a sigh of resentment heaving out of her sleep-deprived body as she watched this interloper achieve success with ease when she had come close to having to admit defeat. She wanted to embrace Charles Blake in gratitude and pull his hair out at the same time.

"Have I done something wrong, my lady?" he inquired softly, treading carefully upon the minefield surrounding her persona created by an exhausted mind.

"You were able to calm him," she shot back, unable to fight the resentment swelling inside of her as she stared incredulously at the two males in front of her, one cooing quietly while the other watched her in a manner that did nothing at the moment but irritate her further. Had they formed some sort of secret conspiracy between them of which she knew nothing? Why had she even bothered for hours upon end?

"Would you prefer that I give him back and leave you?" he continued, the calming timbre in his voice unleashing the claws she was attempting to keep at bay. "

Yes! No—don't you see that it is all so ridiculously unfair?" she cried, amazed at just how the male mind could not see the problem so obviously in front of them. "I have tried to calm him down for hours, and you just waltz into the room and somehow magically make him happy?" She began to pace as weary agitation spiked her indignation to its boiling point. "How is it he has forgotten his mother so easily?"

"He has forgotten no one," Charles soothed, daring to take one step in her direction, halting immediately as her eyes warned him off from coming any closer. "I daresay that I am just a distraction, someone new and interesting." He rubbed the boys back as she had done so often, whispering something quietly in his ear when he began to fidget before returning his attention to Mary and proclaiming softly, "I shall only be a sufficient replacement for a short while. Believe me, my lady, no child ever loses the need for his mother."

Somewhere in her overly-tired being, she remembered the fact that this man had never known his mother, that his aunt had taken that role in his life, making her wonder if he still felt that loss keenly, just as George had never known his father and was eagerly absorbing the attention and affection of this man who held him so gently.

But reality bit back quickly as he offered, "Why don't you allow me to sit with George for a while so you can get some sleep? I daresay you need it."

"And just what gives you the right to offer anything to me?" she spat, past the point of caring if her words were at all rational. "I don't need your assistance to raise my son!"

"No, you don't," he agreed, his eyes somehow seeing past her ire and deflating a bit of her righteous indignation by offering, "You are doing an admirable job of that."

Mary released a heavy sigh as one hand rubbed her forehead in agitation, knowing that Charles Blake was absolutely right yet hating the fact that she really should admit it.

"I am sorry," she finally breathed, taking a hesitant step in his direction, the fact that they were both in night clothes just registering in her consciousness as she pulled her dressing gown tighter to her body. "You did not deserve that."

"Lady Mary, you are tired," Charles responded, holding George gently against him as he offered, "Please—allow me to give you some respite while he is still enjoying my company. You will do him no good if you make yourself ill from exhaustion."

"Have you been consulting with Dr. Clarkson, then?" she hesitated, a part of her incredibly tempted by his offer as the seductive thought of sleep dangled enticingly before her, a yawn overtaking her in betrayal of her wishes.

"No, but if you have been given the same advice by a doctor, I daresay you should consider taking it," he smiled gently, adding with a self-depreciating smile, "Not that I would ever assume to tell you what you should do, my lady."

"Liar," she retorted, making him chuckle softly in such a manner that George actually giggled in return, earning him an incredulous look from his mother. "It would seem as though I have been out-voted as he obviously prefers your company to mine at the moment."

"There is no accounting for his taste, then," he soothed, gazing at her intently as she returned his stare in kind. "But it would give me great pleasure if you would allow me to grant you some much needed rest."

Mary wanted sleep at that moment as badly as she had ever desired anything in her life, or so it felt as she stood there, her legs leaden as her body felt so suddenly weary. And George was actually content for the time being, even though she did wonder just how long that phenomenon would last. She silently cursed Nanny Rodgers for abandoning her post on tonight of all nights and placing her in this position, reproaching herself just as quickly as she did understand the woman's reasons for leaving. Would it be so dreadfully bad if she were to lie down for a few blessed minutes? The lure of a warm bed was frighteningly overpowering.

"Alright," she finally relented, albeit with obvious misgivings in her eyes, "but you must promise to wake me after a few hours or if anything changes with George."

"You have my word," Charles assured her, his feet tracking a path on the thick carpet to keep his charge subdued. "Now will you go and rest?"

"I believe I already answered that," Mary returned, walking towards the small trundle bed that had been set up in the corner.

"What are you doing?" Charles asked quietly, true confusion crossing his features as he watched her lay down, her dressing gown cinched tightly around her waist, and pull the blankets nearly up to her chin.

"What does it look like, Mr. Blake?" Mary quipped, propping herself up on her elbow to face him, "I am doing exactly what you instructed me to do, or are bedtime rituals so vastly different in India?"

He actually quirked a brow at her, forcing her to respond in kind as he stated, "I meant for you to go sleep in your own bedroom, Lady Mary, where you could actually have some peace and quiet and divest yourself of your dressing gown."

"Where I choose to sleep is really none of your concern, Mr. Blake, nor is the state of my sleep attire or lack thereof," she retorted, laying her head down comfortably on the pillow. "But I have no intentions of leaving this room tonight when my son is sick."

He shook his head ruefully as he sat with George in the rocking chair.

"I know you claim to have armor in your skin, but do you also have a brick wall in your head?"

"Those are my terms, Mr. Blake," she replied, reclining onto her back and smiling to herself as her eyes begged her to finally let them close. "And I promise you that I am in no mood to have anyone attempt to scale my walls tonight."

His only response was deep chuckle, and she quickly turned her face from him, hiding the sleepy grin that actually broke free from her inner high barrier of restraint. The small bed actually felt immensely glorious, the mattress seemingly sucking her down into its depths as her muscles succumbed to the temptation of rest almost immediately. Mary was even more tired than she had even imagined or dared to admit. She had no idea just how low her resistance truly was.

"Promise that you will wake me soon," she yawned, her body eagerly merging with the bed as it sought its release from exhaustion. "It would not to do for us to be found together like this."

"I have already promised, Lady Mary," Charles breathed, the barely discernible creek of the rocking chair becoming deliciously hypnotic to her ears. "Now go to sleep."

"You are rather demanding, you know," she murmured, her barely discernible voice sounding nearly drugged, making him smile at the picture she presented all bundled up in blankets with her back to him as she struggled in vain to remain in control of every fiber of her being. He so desired for her to finally let go and give in to the rest she craved so desperately but had been deprived of for too long. And so he sat, keeping watch over both of them as he held her child in his arms, a primal protectiveness overtaking his emotions, along with an unreasonable pride that she would even allow him to meet this one private need for her.

A whisper of sound brushed softly against her ear as Mary drowsily became aware of the fact that he had begun to hum softly to George, noting to herself how very pleasant a voice he possessed and wondering how nice it would be to hear him actually sing. His rich tenor tone wrapped her intimately in layers of velvet, seducing her fogged mind and quieting her body as she finally surrendered to the lure of his voice. Her resistance now broken, she could fight fatigue no longer, its possessive hands embracing her and refusing to let her go. And his warm melody continually stroked her senses from across the room, caressing her weary spirit and unleashing a soothing darkness throughout her body that filled her with a peaceful ecstasy she could no longer deny, her limbs tingling from it. Mary finally gave in to his song and embraced sleep with a passion, clasping her pillow in utter abandon until she was completely spent in the arms of restful oblivion. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Mary sleep later than they'd planned but concoct a plan they both believe will be to their benefit.

Cora felt the slightest amount of pressure on her face, slowly becoming aware that it was actually a hand being held against her mouth. She awoke instantly with a start, nearly crying out in alarm until she witnessed a sight she had never expected to see:

Anna was hovering over her bed, one finger over her lips as she wordlessly begged Cora to be completely silent.

Her first reaction was to go on full alert, her heart pounding partially due to the fright of being awakened in such a manner and partially from the utter dread of what being pulled from slumber in such an unorthodox manner could mean. The last time it had happened, a certain Turkish diplomat had died in her daughter's bed. Surely history could not be repeating itself, Cora reasoned, so she looked anxiously to Anna who was beckoning her forward, a small smile on her lips which began to lay Lady Grantham's fears to rest.

Well, at least no one was dead. Whether or not there were any other similarities to that dreadful night ten years ago, she would just have to wait and see.

It was still dark outside, but the storm seemed to have spent its wrath in full, leaving only a light patter of rain as a memory of its fury. Cora slid from her bed as quietly as possible, following Anna stealthily out the door and into the hallway.

"What is it, Anna?" Cora finally demanded as they moved away from the door, her voice barely audible to her own ears.

"Just come with me," Anna insisted, giving Lady Grantham a smile of assurance that at least the surprise that awaited her would not be totally unpleasant.

As the pair neared the nursery, Cora began to wonder if perhaps George had made a quicker than expected recovery and was now playing happily in his crib. But Anna faced her before turning the door handle that would admit them, reiterating her request for absolute silence by once again touching her finger to her lips.

The reminder was unnecessary. Cora would not have made a sound at this moment even if a mouse suddenly darted up her nightgown.

Anna pressed the door slightly, nudging it open with only the slightest whisper as it brushed the carpet, the two women padding into George's room with muted feet. The sight before her rooted Lady Grantham to her spot, her eyes finding it necessary to widen in order to accurately take in what was clearly presented before them.

George lay in blissful slumber in the arms of a sleeping Charles Blake, slouched in the rocking chair with the Teddy Bear standing watch over both of them in his lap. And across the room, Mary lay dreaming, blankets bundled in a tangled fashion around her legs with one arm slung over her head.

Cora's expression of incredulous shock slowly morphed into a startled smile, looking to Anna and witnessing the younger woman's grin as she shrugged her shoulders, posing the question of what needed to be done in a situation such as this.

Cora hated to disturb either of them, wondering just how much actual sleep either Mary or Mr. Blake had managed with a sick child demanding the attention of anyone who would hold him. But it would not do for the rest of the household to witness or hear of the fact that the two had shared a room for the night—even if it was the nursery. For although it could not pose the scandal that Pamuk could have wrought upon the House of Grantham, it could still make things uncomfortable for her eldest daughter.

And life had been difficult enough on Mary over the past year.

Cora crept to the side of the trundle bed, gently laying her hand upon Mary's shoulder and giving her the most gentle of nudges. She repeated the gesture three or four times until Mary sat up too quickly, catching her breath as she was pulled from her sleep in haste.

"Shhh," her mother breathed, nodding her head in the direction of George and Mr. Blake, still blissfully unaware of the fact that there were any other human beings in the near vicinity. George's head was wedged comfortably in the crook of Charles Blake's arm and shoulder, his cheeks still rosy but not overly-so as his body nestled in trusting contentment against the man's chest. Mary followed her mother's silent urge, sliding out of the small bed and walking upon tip-toe to the rocking chair as she corrected the tie of her dressing gown and tugged a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. She stretched out a hand to her son's forehead, its enticing dampness offering her a measure of hope.

George was cool to the touch. His fever had broken while he slept.

A large smile of relief covered Mary's face, communicating this fact to Anna and her mother as she dared to stroke his dark curls one last time before taking a moment to gaze upon the man who had allowed her to rest during the night. His head was slumped forward on his shoulder in such a position that his neck would most certainly protest once he awoke. His black lashes hovered ever so softly above the small lines just barely creasing under his eyes, and Mary nearly succumbed to the temptation to touch his cheek, just above where dark stubble was beginning to dot his sun-kissed skin and where his dimple lay in hiding for the moment.

He was beautiful.

The thought left her thunder-struck as it swelled within her mind, making her nearly jump back a step before straightening her stance and strolling noiselessly out of the nursery behind her mother and Anna. She followed them wordlessly into the private world of her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her as she still mulled over the unbidden message quietly in her mind.

It should have been Matthew rocking their son to soothe him during his illness, and he would have done so without complaint had the chance been granted to him. But Matthew was no longer with them, robbed of the opportunity to hold his child securely to his chest or whisper endearments into his ears. And George in his blissful innocence had found a measure of comfort in the arms of another.

Would she ever be able to do the same?

Mary was unsure, not ready to entertain the notion yet unwilling to toss it aside as she would have just two days ago. It was too much, too frightening, unthinkable yet tantalizingly possible…beautiful in an odd, broken sort of way, as if shards of glass had been glued together to form a curious piece of art.

And the fact that she was even considering the notion stunned her.

"Mary," her mother whispered, once again laying a gentle hand upon her shoulder as she had done moments ago in the nursery and drawing her daughter's attention. "Go to bed. I'll wake Mr. Blake in a few moments and tend to George myself. You need to rest."

She had no desire to argue this matter, willingly doing as she had been bidden as she slid into the comfort of her own bed, Anna making sure that the drapes were securely drawn even though it would be some time before the clouds would grant the sun leave to make an appearance. She burrowed into the softness of her pillow, the lulling sound of a gentle rain quickly luring her back to sleep as the other two women left her to take care of the parties who remained in the nursery. The last thought of her conscious mind was the image of her son nestled snugly in the arms of a man who had been a mere stranger but two days ago.

When Mary awoke for the second time that morning, it was at a leisured pace, stretching her limbs several times, unable to force herself from the bed as if she had somehow become an extension of it over the past few hours. She listened closely, detecting no sound of rain and curious as to whether the sun actually shone upon the world beyond her drapes. She laid there for several delectable minutes, amazed at just how much sleep she had actually been granted when just a few hours ago she had resigned herself to the fact that she would receive none at all.

And she had Charles Blake to thank for that.

Why had he done such a thing? He had certainly not been obligated to help care for the ailing child of another man. He had been tired himself when he had so unexpectedly appeared at the nursery door, she was sure of it, yet he had asked to be permitted entrance to her world so that he could offer her assistance. He had once again given her the gift of rest and protection, just as he had on the train from London when he could have easily simply left her to her grief and enjoyed a private compartment for himself. Mary shook her head, laughing audibly to herself as she stared up at the ceiling, admitting to herself the very thing she had sworn she would not do.

She did like this man. And the thought terrified her.

What on earth was she to do about it? Her heart was not ready for this—it was not even whole at this point, more like a flimsy mosaic held together by thin string that could fall to pieces at the slightest burst of wind. And her mind could not make sense of anything as part of her craved his presence while the other part simply wanted to flee to the safety of solitude. But there was no laughter to be had in solitude.

And yesterday she had discovered just how direly she needed to laugh.

_But what if I am destined to be unhappy? What if I am truly cursed?_

The familiar icy touch of unwelcome specters found her, chilling her despite the blankets that still covered her body. Her past glared at her, pronouncing her guilty as it always did when it tried her for her sins. And she closed her eyes tightly, feeling the weight of culpability threaten to strangle her again as the death of her husband pressed upon her chest. Had her love tainted Matthew? She had traversed this road too often, somehow never finding her final destination as the path seemed to lead to nowhere and did nothing but torture her mind.

_You seem a bit old to believe in curses and the like._

Mary had always considered herself to be a pragmatist, and giving credence to the thought of curses was certainly not logical. But emotions did not always respond to logical thought, taking on lives of their own and claiming power over one's entire being.

And that included the power to destroy.

Yes—crushing despair had nearly destroyed her. And she was ever so fearful to give her feelings the power to do so again. Matthew had claimed so much of her heart…she had loved him so deeply, so vividly, so completely…

_I didn't know it was possible to love the way that I love you._

She hadn't known, either. And she wondered if she still possessed the ability to love another as fiercely or if part of that had been taken from her at the same moment Matthew had been. There was truly only one way to know, she reasoned, and that was to open her heart enough to another to find out.

And she could not do that…not yet. Matthew had always believed her to be a storm-braver, her parents had always considered her to be the strong one, Edith had always thought her heartless and unmovable, but deep within the recesses of her being, Mary knew the truth:

She was no stronger than a newly-hatched chick. And brick walls were necessary to protect the fragile.

Or were they? Perhaps they did nothing but simply lull the frightened into a false sense of security while robbing them of the right to live. She smiled ruefully to herself as the image of Rapunzel in her tower came unbidden to her mind. She remembered her mother reading the story to her, Edith and Sybil when they were girls from her prized book of fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm, all of them absorbing every word. Edith always insisted on playing the part of Rapunzel when they would attempt to act out the story while her mother read it, so the part of Evil Frau Gothel consistently fell to Mary. The words she would recite in her most wicked voice to as she attempted to truly frighten Edith were forever etched in her memory.

_You have come for your Mistress Darling, but that beautiful bird is no longer sitting in her nest, nor is she singing any more._

And Edith would burst into tears, much to Mary's satisfaction.

Although Mary would never admit it to anyone, she would often lie awake in bed after their story time together, toying with her braid and imagining herself as the unfortunate heroine rather than the evil sorceress who had locked the girl away from the world around her. Somehow, one determined prince had scaled those walls, loved her and tried to help her escape. But in doing so, it cost him his sight and nearly his life.

And it had cost Matthew everything.

Perhaps she was not suited for either the role of the wicked Gothel or the innocent maiden dreaming hopefully at the beginning of the story at all, but rather the bird described late in the story who had been cruelly forced from her nest and had lost her ability to sing.

And that was a cruel fate indeed.

"Mi'lady," a soft voice beckoned, startling Mary from her disjointed reverie as she tentatively entered with her breakfast tray, making sure her lady was awake for pressing forward towards the bed.

"Good morning, Anna," Mary stated, propping her pillows against the headboard and sitting up for her morning meal. "You are looking well this morning."

"Thank you, mi'lady," Anna returned, setting the breakfast tray down for Mary and stepping back to pull the drapes. Fresh sunlight streamed in, so glorious in its nature that Mary could have sworn she could smell the scent of flowers upon its rays. She gazed out the window, marveling how such peace could settle so very quickly after the passing of a storm.

"You are looking much better now than you did a few hours ago, I must say," Anna continued, a grin breaching her features as she turned in Mary's direction. "I take it Master George had a rather rough time of it last night."

"Rather is not quite the term I would use," Mary retorted, spreading some marmalade upon her toast. "He had nearly broken me down, I assure you."

Anna hesitated, her blue eyes wide with curiosity as her lips pressed together to prevent her from asking the question that was so obvious in her mind. Mary paused, looking to her lady's maid as she replied, "About 3:30, I believe."

"What?" Anna asked, confusion taxing her expression as she took quickened steps towards Mary's bed.

"Mr. Blake arrived in the nursery about 3:30 this morning if memory serves me correctly," Mary stated, sipping a cup of coffee before inquiring, "Isn't that what you wanted to know?"

A laugh escaped Anna as she stood close to Mary, shrugging slightly as she said with no small amount of coyness, "I was actually going to say that he is quite a handsome man. That's all."

"Is he? I hadn't noticed," Mary lied, raising her eyes daringly at Anna in a manner that made the other woman simply shake her head.

"I see that I shall get no answers out of you this morning, mi'lady," she conceded, making her way towards the closet to lay out the proper clothing for the day.

"Only because I have none yet to offer, Anna," Mary admitted, her voice softening at the utter truth of her confession. "Not yet, anyway."

Anna turned and made her way purposefully back toward the bed, her expression thoughtful as she offered, "After what I found in the nursery this morning, I daresay you have more questions than answers right now. It must make you a bit uncomfortable."

"More than a bit, to be honest," Mary replied, her toast and coffee forgotten for the moment. "My own mind seems to have deserted me, Anna. I'm not sure just what to think anymore."

"Then perhaps it's best not to think so hard, mi'lady," Anna reasoned, laying a hand on her rounded womb as she traced lazy circles upon it softly. "You don't have to have any answers just yet. It's alright to relax a bit and see what happens."

"I'm not very good at that, you know," Mary stated, once again raising her coffee to her lips as she savored its smooth bitterness.

"Yes, I know," Anna grinned, resuming her task of laying out clothes for the day. "And I fancy that Mr. Blake has already figured that out for himself."

Mary had slept much later than normal and noticed immediately that most of the household was already well about their business by the time she made her way out of her bedroom. She discovered her mother in the nursery, keeping watch over George as he played with his wooden blocks on the floor.

"Anna said that she would be tending him soon," Cora stated, arising from the rocking chair and walking over to her daughter. "His fever went back up again this morning but broke fairly quickly, and he has eaten a decent breakfast. I believe he is over the worst of it, Mary."

"Thank God," Mary breathed, kneeling down beside her son as she commenced to building a wall of blocks that she knew he would only knock down in delight. "I'm not sure I could handle another night like the last one."

"Oh, I don't know," Cora stated, watching her daughter with interest. "You seemed to procure some decent help along the way."

"Mr. Blake was very kind," Mary offered, not taking her glance from George as he clapped two blocks together, delighting in the sound he was producing as he grinned at his mother.

"I'm sure that he is," Cora responded, straightening a few toys that her grandson had toppled over just moments before, "but I have my doubts as to kindness being his primary motive in rocking a sick baby for hours on end."

"Perhaps we should offer him the post of temporary nanny," Mary said drily, looking directly at Cora to gage her reaction.

Her response was an incredulous look as her mother simply shook her head before walking closer to her daughter and grandson. "Speaking of which, would you like me to post an advertisement in the paper for both a nanny and a lady's maid? We really don't have much time left, Mary."

"I'm aware of that fact, Mama," Mary replied, restacking the tower she had just constructed seconds ago that now lay in pieces on the floor. "But the nanny post is to be temporary. I have already found someone to fill it on a permanent basis."

"You have?" Cora exclaimed, true surprise radiating from her as she knelt next to Mary. "We only lost Nanny Rodgers yesterday. How on earth did you find someone during the night, Mary?"

"Because I offered the post when the candidate was helping me get ready for bed," Mary answered, gluing her eyes firmly to her mother's.

Cora's eyes widened until her expression was nearly comical, laying a hand atop Mary's shoulder as she whispered, "Anna?"

"Of course, Anna," Mary responded, "Or did you think that perhaps Mr. Blake assisted me in undressing, as well?"

"There's no need to be vulgar, Mary," her mother reprimanded, standing again as she folded her arms across her chest. "Has she accepted?"

Mary sighed, standing and leaving George to his blocks for the moment as she answered, "Not yet, although she wants to, I'm sure. She said she would need to talk it over with Bates and let me know."

"Of course," Cora breathed, looking at nothing in particular as she contemplated the idea, the movement of her eyes betraying her rapid progression of thought. "This is rather unusual, Mary, but it  _is_  Anna."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Mary inquired, still unsure of her mother's feelings on this rather unorthodox shift in positions.

"It means that Anna is practically like family," Cora stated, now looking Mary fully in the face as she continued. "And I think offering her the position of George's nanny was a brilliant idea. I only wish I though of it myself."

Mary exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath until she felt it exit her lungs. She had truly hoped that this would be the reaction received, and had dared to believe it could possible in light of the absolute loyalty and protection Anna had afforded the family and her personally over the years. If her mother stood by her side in this matter, then her father would not oppose her decision—she was sure of it. Now all that remained was to see just how Bates himself would take to the idea.

"Well, I shall post the advertisement for a lady's maid, and I'll speak to Mrs. Hughes concerning a temporary nanny. Perhaps she knows of a local woman who would fill that position well."

"Thank you, Mama," Mary replied, picking up George's teddy bear, trying her best to sound uninterested as she asked, "Has Mr. Blake already departed?"

"No," her mother returned, smiling softly at her daughter's failed attempt at nonchalance. "Your father was most anxious to give him a short tour of the grounds this morning. His enthusiasm left poor Mr. Blake with little choice but to accept, I'm afraid. I suppose they should be returning fairly soon."

Cora turned to leave, nearly out the door when she turned and added, "Besides, you really don't think that he would leave without telling you good-bye, do you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mary returned, raising her eyebrows as she reluctantly admitted, "I'm afraid I was not very gracious to him last night when he turned up at the nursery door. I may have frightened him off."

"Seeing as he inquired after you first thing this morning, I would say it is more likely that you reeled him in," Cora grinned causing her daughter to cast her glance to the ceiling as a sigh escaped her chest.

But the fact that he had asked about her secretly sent a ripple of hesitant elation throughout her body.

"Mama, do you happen to know just where my old Brothers Grimm book is located?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject for her own comfort.

Cora narrowed her eyes a moment in contemplations, pressing her lips together slightly before answering, "I believe it is on the shelf in the library next to the windows, right beside your old Jane Austen novels. Would you like for me to go and fetch it for you?"

"No, that's not necessary," Mary replied, taking a seat in the rocking chair until Anna returned. "I'll find it later."

Anna arrived within minutes, and Mary left George in her care after establishing that he was still without fever and feeling reasonably well. If the ground was not wet from last night's drenching, she would take him outside with her and let him sit on a blanket and enjoy the late morning sun. But she was not yet ready to take any chances with the child's health, so she left him in capable hands indoors as she made her way to her bench under the tree, a towel to dry it in one hand and her old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales in the other.

The scent of the air was intoxicating as it bore the freshness of earth cleansed by the recent rains. Mary made her way to the sacred spot, her feet becoming slightly damp through her shoes as she walked in the grass. She dried a place for herself on her bench, sitting under the protection of the large tree that she had claimed as her own for as long as she could remember. This was her private haven she had eventually shared with Matthew as he seemed to sense the magic of it as much as she did, although it had also borne witness to many painful points in their relationship.

Points on which she was in no mood to dwell at the moment.

Just how much of her family's history had this tree witnessed, she wondered, looking up into its branches that were bearing the first traces of their autumn wardrobe. The view made her a bit dizzy as she could just make out the high clouds through the weathered limbs, the leaves shimmering ever so slightly as a soft wind brushed against them. Mary closed her eyes, rediscovering the sheer beauty of this place as the enchantment of it seeped seamlessly into her very pores. She then moved her attention to the well-worn volume clutched in her hands, turning slightly yellowed pages until she found the one she desired.

She sensed his nearness before hearing his footfalls in the grass, her senses keen as they seemed to meld with the natural environment enveloping her, yet she kept her eyes squarely upon the pages of her book while her pulse began to slightly increase its pace.

"Good morning, Lady Mary," he greeted, the sound of his voice warmly reminding her of its intoxicating sound as he had hummed her to sleep in the nursery.

"Good morning, Mr. Blake," she returned, turning her face to meet his smile and offering him one of her own. "You're out and about early, I see."

"No, you're just out and about a bit late this morning, my lady," he replied, his grin widening as she rolled her eyes slightly.

"I suppose I am," she admitted, setting her book in her lap carefully as she held her place with her hands. "And I probably wouldn't be out at all if it weren't for you." She lowered her gaze momentarily before returning it to his and stating, "It would seem I owe you my thanks again, Mr. Blake."

"You owe me nothing, Lady Mary," he replied, "but I am delighted to see you looking so well rested." He gestured to the bench and asked softly, "May I join you?"

She hesitated a moment, unsure of whether she truly desired to share this private retreat again with anyone. Her's…then her and Matthew's…now her's once more by a design she had not chosen. Dare she allow the spot beside her to be occupied once more—even if only for a brief moment in time? She was teetering on the edge of an answer, truly uncertain of which side should bear more weight. But the image of Mr. Blake holding George in the rocking chair while they both still slumbered fluttered through her memory, persuading her that the bench indeed was large enough to allow him a spot for a short while.

"You may," she answered softly. "But you may want to dry the seat first. I would hate to have you ruin your suit again after just having it returned to you in top form."

"That would never do," he agreed, taking the towel from her as he wiped away the dampness. "I believe Mr. Carson would have a fit if he had to make my suit right again in such short order."

"Well, it would disturb his schedule for the day, I am sure," Mary grinned. "Such a distraction could bring on apoplexy for poor Carson."

"I would hate to be responsible for such travesty," Charles smiled, "for my invitation to the house party would most assuredly be revoked."

"We could not have that, could we?" she voiced, hovering a half-glance in his direction as she realized just how disappointing that would actually be.

"Perhaps you can assist me, my lady," he continued, taking a seat on the opposite side of the well-used bench. "I would like to know just who I need to thank for the use of his suit last night. I am reasonably sure that it would not be your father or Mr. Branson, so I am at a bit of a loss."

Her world seemed to freeze, a stifling silence binding her as words turning in her mind refused to take on spoken form. The very air she breathed seemed to be held in suspension as she realized that the discovery of her impulsive action was imminent, quickly dropping her gaze back to her book to hide her embarrassment as all color drained from her face.

"Oh, Good God," he breathed, moving closer to her as realization hit him with a clear yet unmerciful force. "It belonged to your husband."

It was a statement, not an inquiry, and Mary could find no logical reason to deny it. Instead, she drew her eyes up to his, noting that their deep brown was marred by heavy mortification as she admitted, "Yes. It belonged to Matthew."

And she realized with a start that she had just spoken his name aloud to Mr. Blake for the first time.

"Why…how…" he began, running a hand through his dark hair, his eyes searching the grass below their feet as if the answers were concealed by the blades. "I do not understand."

"I told Mama to give it to you," she interrupted, forcing a smile upon her face as her hands began to tremble slightly at his incredulous expression. "You were to receive one of Tom's, but I knew that it would never fit, and his suit was just hanging there in the closet…"

Mary could not finish, words once again deserting her as she gazed at him, pleading silently for his understanding of what she could not speak.

"That does explain a lot," he spoke to himself although his words carried very clearly to her ears, Mary instantly knowing he was speaking of her discomfort in his presence at last night's dinner. Heavy silence formed quite by its own bidding, making Mary wonder if she had crossed some sort of invisible boundary that had outraged him in some fashion. Had offering Matthew's suit to him insulted Mr. Blake in a manner of which she was ignorant?

She dearly hoped not, her fear of having taken a catastrophic misstep last night rendering her too apprehensive to even look at him. But the dread of his reproach coupled with the unreasonable need for his absolution finally forced her hand, prompting her to purposefully lift her eyes until they looked unflinchingly into his. And the depth of sincerity that shone from their darkness nearly shattered her.

"That was an extremely brave thing to do, Lady Mary," he breathed, watching in amazement as genuine breathless relief washed through her, her eyes hovering closed for just a moment as she drew in the air around her deeply. And he understood with surprise that she had been honestly concerned over his reaction.

He would put that to rest at once.

"I am deeply touched that you would share something so very personal with me," he assured her, a rather lop-sided grin reaching out to allay any of her remaining misgivings.

"It would hardly be the first time," she quietly admitted, casting her gaze down briefly before returning it to him. "I seem to make an odd habit of sharing quite personal things with you."

The genuine smile that now fully broke across her face drew a hesitant one from her as well as he attested, "And I am most honored by it."

Mary sat in thoughtful silence momentarily, finally glancing back at him and stating as drily as she could muster, "Besides, it was necessary. If you had shown up in Tom's trousers, Carson might not have even allowed you in the dining room due to their length not reaching regulation. He is rather particular about doing things properly, you know."

"Well then, it would seem that I need to thank you for protecting me from being added to Mr. Carson's black list," he smiled, sensing that enough had now been said about this topic for her taste. Her actions may have been courageous, but they still left her with a sense of unease that hovered about her as an aura.

"No, that would never do," she responded, thankful for any topic of conversation that would draw them away from the one they had just been discussing as she steadied her breath purposefully. They sat in a calming silence for a moment, Mary keenly aware of the birdsong surrounding them as it danced in her ears.

"Where did you leave Papa?" she finally asked, looking around for her father but unable to see him in the near vicinity.

"Talking with some of the tenants," Charles answered, leaning forward slightly as he stated, "There has been some damage left by last night's storm at two of the cottages that immediately demanded his attention. He was a most gracious host and understood my need to return in more haste than he so I could make my departure soon to pick up my aunt."

"Just be careful in how you pick her up," she insisted, her eyebrow raising in a slight challenge. "I'm not sure just how well Lady Catherine would handle such a lift as you gave me yesterday."

His laughter spread to his eyes as he studied her a moment before taking up her delicate gauntlet and replying merrily, "Don't' worry, Lady Mary. That lift is reserved especially for you."

She was unsure if it was the breeze or his words that made her shiver in such a manner, but she did have her suspicions.

And they made her shiver all the more.

"Will you leave right away?" Mary asked, a small catch in her voice barely detectible as her heart fluttered slightly.

"Only after you tell me what you are reading," he grinned, his dimples having their desired effect upon her as she felt her palms begin to warm under his scrutiny.

"I'm afraid it's nothing earth-shattering," she responded, flipping the book in her lap so that he could read the cover. "The Brothers Grimm, I'm afraid."

"An interesting choice," he mused, stroking the edge of the cover gingerly with his thumb. "I always enjoyed  _The Town Musicians of Bremen_ , personally. Which is your favorite Grimm tale?"

"Probably  _Snow White and Rose Red_ ," Mary replied, "but I am currently reading another story that I always enjoyed."

"And which is that, pray tell?" Charles inquired, looking into her eyes as he hazarded a guess. "Cinderella?"

"Hardly," Mary laughed, tilting her head ever so slightly as she stated clearly, "No self-respecting lady would run off and leave her shoe at the palace. It was be simply mortifying. And Cinderella should have had the nerve to simply run away from her horrid step-mother in the first place."

"I daresay you have no pity for poor Snow White, either," he grinned, leaning towards her ever so slightly as she contemplated his question.

"No, I do understand her predicament, actually," Mary responded. "Snow White was the daughter of a king and lived in a castle with many people who depended upon the care of her family. She had responsibilities and duties that would make leaving her birthright very difficult. Cinderella lived in a home where they forced her to sweep the cinders and wear rags. I wouldn't stay in a place like that for a king's ransom."

"No, I daresay you wouldn't," he laughed, thoroughly enjoying her evaluation of fairy-tale heroines. "So what dire tale has managed to spark your interest today?"

" _Rapunzel_ , actually," Mary replied, drawing the beloved volume a bit closer to her wondering what his response to her choice would be.

"The lady in the tower, is it?" Charles asked, raising a brow in curiosity. "Interesting choice. I always felt sorry for the girl, you know. Having someone climb up your hair must have been horribly painful."

"Ah, but it was her only means of having any contact with the outside world," Mary put in, eyeing him quizzically. "What else was the poor girl supposed to do?"

"If she had had any sense, she would have followed your example and cut her hair off early on," Charles retorted, daring a look at her new coiffure as it lifted slightly in the breeze. "It would have saved her a lot of trouble in the end, plus it would have made her look quite modern."

"How is a girl to know what modern even means if she's locked in a tower?' Mary grinned, her eyes actually beginning to sparkle in amusement as she turned her body so she was facing him. "Besides, just how would the prince come to her rescue if she had cut her hair? How do you propose he scale her tower without it?"

"Please, any self-respecting prince would rather brave Dante's Inferno than purposely inflict pain upon a lady," Charles said resolutely. "A man who would climb up a woman's hair to gain entrance to her tower is both dull-witted and morally lacking, in my opinion."

And for a bone-chilling moment, she clearly envisioned Kemal Pamuk.

"I may just agree with you on that one," Mary returned, brushing away the image as quickly as she could and drawing a look of pleasant surprise from her friendly opponent, "but there are men out there who would seek an entrance by any means possible."

All pleasantry disappeared from his face at her statement as he simply stated somberly, "I know."

"Well, then," she cut in, her voice rising a bit as she sought to restore the jovial mood between them, "we have still not solved the problem of how this prince is to manage the tower respectably."

"I suppose a catapult would do," Charles began, purposefully feigning a serious expression as he stared at her intently. "But if his aim were off at all, it could prove disastrous, indeed."

"Quite," Mary agreed, relaxing in the air of playful seriousness as she mused, "And just think of the mess he would leave on her tower."

"Dear me, that would never do," he returned, stroking his chin as if in serious thought. "Putting extra work on the lady is very un-hero like behavior. I suppose stilts would be out of the question."

"How on earth could stilts the height of a tower ever be maneuvered successfully?" she quipped, narrowing her gaze slightly to indicate that it was his turn.

"It is quite doubtful that they could," he agreed, shaking his head slightly. "The bloke would probably break his own neck before he was able to save hers. More's the pity."

"Poor man," Mary sighed, a grin warming her face in a manner as she cast her challenge. "Does he stand a chance at all, I wonder."

"Perhaps that depends upon her," Charles responded, inching closer almost imperceptibly as he tossed the challenge back to her court.

"And how is that, Mr. Blake, if she is locked soundly away out of reach without even her hair to keep her company?" she mused, sensing something in their conversation that made her heart jump a beat.

"Well, for example, if she had a suit of armor lying about, she could always throw it down to the poor chap," Charles answered, his dark eyes capturing hers quite efficiently as he searched her face for the smallest of reactions.

"And just how would armor be useful in his particular situation?" she inquired, her voice taking on a bit of a breathy quality. "I would think such a thing would be a hindrance in his quest."

"That all depends upon his point of view," he deftly replied, turning so that his arm rested on the back of the bench. "If he views it as simply a suit of armor, then he is doomed from the start. But if he sees the possibilities before him and is unafraid of a bit of hard work, he can craft a solution."

"And what solution is that, pray?" Mary queried, curiously hesitant and eager to hear his response, the world around her narrowing somewhat as her focus was solely upon this man sharing her bench.

"Well, he could dismantle the armor and create some spikes with which he would be able to scale the wall," Charles replied, his eyes brightening as he presented her with the idea.

"Hmmm, clever indeed," Mary agreed, casting him a look that hinted of admiration, "although he would be rather worn out once he reached the top, I'm afraid. His utter fatigue may make her lose her charm. I'm told that can happen in the throes of exhaustion."

She had tossed the proverbial ball squarely in his court with that one, yet her expression revealed nothing.

"Nonsense, Lady Mary. True charm shines through no matter how exhausted the parties involved."

He tweaked a brow back at her, seemingly rather proud of his answer. Well, she would let it do for now, she mused, picking up the thread he had left dangling enticingly at her feet. "There is also the issue of practicality, you see, for the entire process does sound rather time consuming for the poor man."

"O come now," he rebuked gently, "why should the matter of time deter him if it is her freedom and happiness that he holds in his hands? Such treasures are worth all the time in the world, in my opinion."

"Will he not grow impatient?" she inquired, her eyes fluttering between his face and the text of the story as she swallowed. "Perhaps the task would become tedious to him."

"Only if he is an idiot," he returned, willing her to not fear his gaze as he spoke ever so gently. "After all, faint heart never won fair lady. And the trust of a fair lady is treasure, indeed."

The calls of a flock of Canadian geese flying overhead broke the stillness that had descended momentarily, prompting Mary to draw breath and state the words being held captive behind her lips.

"And if she is frightened of tossing down her armor, what then? Would that not leave her defenseless if the prince truly proves to be a cad?"

Her words hovered between them, nearly tangible as they both urged them forward and gave them pause.

"No, she is far from defenseless," he argued gently, his sincere glaze flickering with the slightest hint of a dare. "Her armor is a false security, she does not need it even though she believes that she does. The lady's real defense is her quick mind. I trust she can deduce the man's true character better than he can himself. And if she finds him lacking, then she can move on."

"You must hold a rather high opinion of her abilities," Mary breathed, the air feeling thicker somehow as it entered her body. "Perhaps you have over-estimated her."

"No, I highly doubt it," he offered, drawing a breath of courage before stating what he knew needed to be said. "I believe the lady in the tower has under-estimated herself for far too long."

"And what if she is afraid to leave her tower? After all, it has been her world for quite some time."

"Then the prince should take the time to dismantle it, stone by stone," he began, his voice drawing her towards him as his nearness filled her senses. "Perhaps he could fashion the materials into a more practical fortress that would offer her protection but would not imprison her."

"And if she should feel exposed as her tower was being undone?" Mary asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, her heart seeming to hover in suspension as she voiced something so personal.

"It is always his job to make sure that she feels protected," Charles answered, the playfulness having somehow vanished from his eyes as his response drew her in. "He should offer her a covering, his cloak, perhaps, until she trusts him to care for her. No one enjoys feeling exposed."

Her blood was pounding in her ears, her cheeks suddenly warm while her fingers felt frigid. She cast her eyes back down to the well-worn pages as she breathed, "You seem to have an answer for everything, Mr. Blake."

"Hardly, Lady Mary," he replied, the quiet timbre of his voice begging her to listen closely. "But it would seem that I need to brush up on the tales of the Brothers Grimm over the next two days so we can continue our discussion at the house party."

"At least I shall have one thing to look forward to on Friday," she smiled in return, drawing forth his dimples as he grinned back at her. "Which story shall we discuss?"

"Perhaps  _Sleeping Beauty_  would be appropriate," he grinned, making her blush slightly and her eyes widen as she realized that he had in all likelihood observed her slumbering in the trundle bed just hours ago.

The nerve!

"Or perhaps we should select  _Clever Hans_ ," she retorted, drawing a full smile from him as he chuckled and shook his head.

" _And that's how Hans lost his bride_ ," he quoted, shaking his head slightly. "I always felt a bit sorry for the poor bloke, although he was rather admittedly a numbskull."

"If he had actually listened to Gretel, perhaps the story would have ended differently." Mary quipped, her blush now replaced by a small spark in her pupils, "no matter how idiotic he was."

"You are right, of course," he returned, raising his arms in mock surrender once more. "As I said last night, I know when I have been beaten.  _Sleeping Beauty_  it is."

"And you accused me of harboring a brick wall in my head," she shot back, a hint of laughter ringing in her voice that gladdened his heart.

"So the house party does not excite you?" he asked, drawing his brows up in inquiry.

"Not in the slightest," Mary admitted, shaking her head ruefully as she explained, "I was not even made aware of it until George and I arrived home from London."

Charles stared at her in genuine surprise as he exclaimed, "You mean just two days ago? Right after we parted ways in York?"

"Exactly," Mary answered, smiling in spite of herself as he once again ran his hands through his hair in disbelief.

"Why would your family keep such a thing from you?" Charles questioned, not understanding the situation to his satisfaction.

"Why do you think?" she shot back, her tone bordering on incredulous. "They knew I would loathe the idea and would create some sort of means of extricating myself from it as soon as possible."

"Are we such poor company, Lady Mary?" he put forth, feigning of look of injury that made her simply roll her eyes.

"Your aunt—no, but the jury is still out on you, I'm afraid," she retorted, her eyes full of merry fire as his looked back at her without intimidation.

"I suppose I must take your advice from last night and remain in top form," he mused, noting how she cast her eyes briefly away as he spoke her own words.

"Indeed," she dared, facing him fully as she revealed. "For you are one of three unmarried men to be in attendance. This was all Mama's and Granny's doing, you understand, to get me back in the world of the living."

"Top form, indeed," he mused, his eyes narrowing slightly in interest, feeling as if she dealt him a stacked hand with that information. "No wonder you were so opposed to the idea of this gathering."

"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed, a genuine smile breaking across her face as she fell back against the bench in relief. "Someone actually understands my feelings in this matter."

"Perhaps I can be of service to you at this party, my lady," Charles grinned, a small measure of alarm settling in the pit of her stomach as she noted more than a hint of mischief in his expression.

"How so, Mr. Blake?" she queried, her eyebrow questioning him.

"Well, I could stick close by your side, you see, and protect you from any unwanted advances," he replied, making her suddenly aware of just how small the bench had become and how close he was sitting.

"And who will protect me from you, pray?" she voiced quietly, the hint of vulnerability shimmering in her words not lost upon him.

"I shall," he replied, gazing at her sincerely before a grin crept onto his face. "I promise to quote you no sonnets, ask you to dance no waltzes, nor attempt to steal any kisses during my stay here at Downton."

"And do you get anything out of this agreement," she asked, her pulse now having increased to an uncomfortable pace.

"You must agree to come for a visit in York in the next few weeks," he stated, noting the interest that flashed in her gaze at his invitation. "I should dearly love to show you the horses, especially Kala."

Mary sat in contemplative silence, suddenly feeling unnaturally calm under the circumstances as she replied. "I accept your terms, Mr. Blake. But we really must work on your bargaining skills, you know. I am getting the far better end of this agreement than you are."

"Are you indeed, Lady Mary?" he voiced, having no idea how the velvet timbre of his voice wrapped around her, giving her pause and assurance at the same time. "Are you indeed?'


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go awry at Downton once Mr. Blake leaves.

He had been gone but two hours when the madness began.

Cora had taken her leave just after Mr. Blake's departure to journey to the village with the intention of posting an advertisement concerning the position of a lady's maid. Mary took her copy of the Grimm Brothers fairy tales and made her way to the nursery where she had planned upon spending the remainder of the afternoon caring for, reading to and playing with her son. All reports concerning his ear had been encouraging, so she felt no sense of foreboding as she journeyed up the stairs and down the hallway to the nursery.

She should have known better.

George had just awakened from his nap, and he was sitting rather groggily in his crib, blinking and rubbing his eyes as if trying to remember just where he was supposed to be as he took in his surroundings. But it was Anna who commanded Mary's attention. She stood braced against the wall just a few paces from the crib, her eyes rounded in a swirl of apprehension and absolute surprise while her arms cradled her abdomen.

"Anna—what is it? Is it the baby?"

Of course it was the baby! She shook her head at her own idiotic question. Mary moved towards the other woman in haste, taking Anna's arm with a firm gentleness and leading to the rocking chair, gingerly insisting that she sit down.

"I'm not sure exactly…"Anna began, interrupting herself mid-sentence as she bent slightly, her eyes squeezing shut, the rest of her face tightening in response.

"Wait here," Mary commanded, liberating George from the captivity of his bed as his protests over being held there too long had begun to escalate. She carried him from the nursery in the direction of the stairs, nearly colliding with Mrs. Hughes as she turned a blind corner.

"Mrs. Hughes—thank God!" Mary sighed in relief, the agitation in her face serving as an immediate signal to the older woman that something of significance was amiss.

"What is it, my lady?" Mrs. Hughes questioned, her concern easily evident.

"It's Anna," Mary returned, instinctively rubbing George's back as she continued. "I believe it is her time. Please alert Mr. Bates and send for Dr. Clarkson at once."

"Shall I also arrange for a car to take her home?" Mrs. Hughes inquired, thinking through the situation with a clarity of mind that Mary quietly admired.

"I had not thought of that," Mary admitted, looking towards the head housekeeper for advice. "We could set her up in one of the guest rooms here if that is more convenient."

Mrs. Hughes's face morphed into a gentle smile as she took a step towards Mary and offered, "I do believe Mrs. Bates would prefer to be in her own home at this time, Lady Mary. Most women do under such circumstances."

Mary's brows drew together in contemplation as she then gently nodded her head in apprehension. "Of course, you are right, Mrs. Hughes. Please take care of whatever arrangements are necessary while I go and see to her."

"Very well, my lady," Mrs. Hughes returned, turning to her appointed tasks as Mary rapidly retreated back to the nursery. She burst into the room, an incredulous expression taking over her features as she saw Anna standing by George's crib folding his favorite blanket.

"Exactly what portion of 'wait here' was misunderstood?" Mary asked, the tone of her voice mirroring the confusion upon her countenance.

"I am here, mi'lady," Anna replied, her own face somewhat puzzled as to her lady's concern.

"Why are you not sitting down?" Mary returned, closing the distance between the two of them. "Do you really believe that I meant for you to continue working?"

"Folding a blanket is hardly what I would consider work," Anna smiled as she laid the offending stitched material down in the crib. "And I felt better being up and about rather than sitting still. The tightness I was feeling has subsided now."

"For the time being," Mary put in, rubbing George's back in a motion that was more to calm herself than her son at the moment. "It could return without any warning, and we want to take no chances."

"That's very kind, mi'lady," Anna replied, taking a breath Mary noted was much deeper than usual.

"Sit, Anna. I will not have anything go wrong for you or your baby if I can help it," Mary stated, her true agitation showing through as the thin façade of collectiveness she had knit around herself began to show signs of wear. She had been unable to prevent Sybil's horrific death, she had been granted no foresight to warn her of Matthew's impending doom as he left her and George in the safety of the hospital.

She would now draw upon every ounce of influence and power she possessed to care for this woman who had protected her so selflessly through the most shameful chapter of her past. She would protect Anna.

The truth of her unspoken worry was translated with an unfailing accuracy borne out of familiarity by Mrs. Bates. She nodded wordlessly, returning to the offered rocking chair as she sought to calm the panic rising in this woman standing beside her who despised any show of weakness in herself.

"Thank you, mi'lady. Perhaps I shall sit for a while."

Mary exhaled, pacing thoughtfully with George as she focused upon calming her own mind with controlled deliberation.

"Mrs. Hughes is notifying Mr. Bates and sending for Dr. Clarkson," Mary informed her, traversing the entirety of the nursery with George contentedly bouncing on her hip as he chewed upon his rabbit. "The car will be ready shortly to transport both of you home."

"That is simply not necessary," Anna began, her protest instantly muted by a look from Mary informing her that any disagreement was futile.

"Yes, I believe it is," quite another voice stated, its possessor filling the doorway and gazing lovingly at his wife. Mary observed the couple staring at one another in adoration, an odd mixture of absolute joy and profound loss brimming within her. Matthew had looked at her in such a manner so many times, so delectably rich in meaning but now and forever too few in number. And at that moment, she missed him utterly. "Come now, Anna," Bates implored her softly. "Let's get you downstairs so we can go home and let you rest until Dr. Clarkson arrives."

"Alright, then," Anna acquiesced, taking her husband's hand as he carefully assisted her out of the chair and onto her feet. The glow of impending motherhood was settling upon her, the sunlight assailing the nursery windows casting a shine upon her golden hair that made Mary suddenly envision a Renaissance masterpiece. And how youthful Mr. Bates appeared, no lines of concern creasing his brow as he took in the miracle of his wife on the threshold of delivering their child. She envied them their happiness, although she knew all too well that it had been forged upon a foundation of pain and great difficulty, similar to that of hers and Matthew's but vastly different just the same. It was not the blithe joviality of innocence and youth but an appreciation of love freely given and received by imperfect partners who bore marks from their perspective pasts. Anna and Bates deserved this happiness so very deeply. And a craving for the same deeply-rooted joy rumbled within her, making her realize that this portion of her life had been left unfed for a year now.

Marriage to Matthew had been a veritable feast of love and acceptance, of freely offering and receiving so much from the other, of always taking in more than her fill from the one person who had truly understood her and chosen her as his own in spite of it. She missed him with a raw hunger, knowing that there would never be another like him and longing for their time lost to be miraculously restored. Yet he was gone, and here she stood. And her appetite to live was reawakening.

The look of remembrance broke unbidden across her face but not unnoticed by Anna who turned her understanding gaze to Mary before stating, "We are going down now, mi'lady."

Mary snapped back to the moment with rapid clarity, nodding in agreement. "Of course," she began, forging a path for the couple as she progressed with precision out of the nursery and into the halls of the great house. "You must get home as soon as possible."

The small party moved as quickly as they were able down the stairs and to the entrance, Mary praying fervently all the while that there would finally be a baby born at Downton who would not have to share his or her birthday with the death of one parent. Once Mr. and Mrs. Bates were settled efficiently into the car awaiting their arrival, Mary leaned in to see them off.

"Please let us know immediately if there is anything that you need," she began, extending her slender hand and grasping Anna's in support as she grasped George tightly against her with the other. "I shall come and check up on you later."

"That is very kind, my lady," Mr. Bates returned sincerely. "We shall keep you abreast of how things progress."

Mary nodded, moving away from the departing vehicle as George began to wave good-bye. There they went, Anna and John, on their path to opening a new chapter in their lives together through the binding of a child. And once again, Mary felt the sting of making her journey both to and from the hospital last year without Matthew beside her, holding her hand as he would have done had he been granted the opportunity to do so. Her decision to travel to Scotland had denied him of one of those journeys, and a force beyond her understanding had robbed him so ruthlessly of the other. The utter unfairness of it all railed up her spine once more. George suddenly became quite bouncy, attempting to push himself from his mother's arms as if in an attempt to fly back into the house. Mrs. Hughes smiled indulgently at the boy, willingly taking him in her arms when he unexpectedly leaned towards her.

"Babies must be God's way of reminding us of what is truly good and important in this world," she mused, giving George an exaggerated smile that made him giggle in response. "He's such a good boy, my lady."

"He has his father's good nature, I believe," Mary returned, touching his hair softly as she breathed, "And I pray he keeps it."

"I believe that he will," Mrs. Hughes began, hesitating with a measured determination as she stated, "As well as a healthy dose of his mother's resilience. If I may say so, my lady, you have done a fine job of raising him under such harsh circumstances as you've been forced to bear."

The unbidden praise of the older woman standing before her stunned Mary, her eyes widening in utter surprise as she breathed, "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I appreciate you saying that, more than you know."

Mrs. Hughes nodded kindly in acceptance, smiling again at George before offering him back to Mary.

"I suppose I'd better give him back to his mother, now. I'm sure there's plenty that needs my attention before Friday arrives."

"Of course, and thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Mary voiced, pulling her squirming child closer to her chest until she could release him in safety within the confines of the nursery. She entered the house slowly, unnaturally noticing each click of her heels as they traversed the great hall to the stairs, their collective echoes filling her with a profound sense of emptiness. It was her home—yes—a home she loved with a passion and had fought so desperately to keep. Yet its unmoving walls could not embrace her, the lifeless paint and unfeeling mortar unable to respond to her when she spoke, the cold timbers and bricks utterly incapable of returning even the slightest scrap of affection. Nor was any part of Downton able to make her laugh.

An agonizing hunger cried out for satisfaction as she accepted a truth she should have recognized weeks ago: she was lonely. Was it possible that indulging herself in time spent with Charles Blake could ease that ache a bit? His easy and compassionate nature was enticing, his companionship an alluring temptation to sample the unexpected sweetness found in this new world opening before her as a banquet. Not to mention that his conversation certainly did add some zest and spice to her plate. And then there was that blasted smile of his that subtly yet ever so tantalizingly beckoned to her senses now awakening from a necessary hibernation.

Yes—her appetite to live was indeed stirring again. Winter had been a harsh task-master, forcing her to seek solitude and shelter from the even bleaker elements that so rudely crashed into her life. But Mary was ready to emerge from her cave, restless to take in her fill of the delectably enticing aromas outside of that limited existence. At least she would throw open the tower windows, she mused to herself, even if she yet lacked the courage to move any further.

Just as she reached the stairs and began her renewed ascent, running feet ruthlessly grabbed her attention, the hateful panic attempting to take command yet again as she turned to face whatever crisis was to be put before her.

"My lady," Jimmy breathed, panting in a fury as his face clearly reflected alarm. "You must come quickly! It's Mr. Carson."

Dear, God! Nothing could happen to Carson! She followed Jimmy as quickly as she could with George in her arms, the boy's eyes rounding as his mother abruptly shifted courses. They moved with haste downstairs, Mary praying silently with each step for this man who had truly served as her loyal knight the entirety of her life as she fought to keep threatening bile at bay. All of the servants were crowding the hallway outside of Carson's quarters, not disturbing him, but clearly awaiting an answer for whatever had occurred. A wave of relief washed over her as she noticed quite clearly that nobody was crying, although the weight of concern hovering over the assembly was palpable. She knocked with no hesitation, George attempting to mimic her action, her summons answered promptly by Mrs. Hughes looking decidedly more distraught than she had just moments ago.

"My lady, please come in," she offered, opening the door just widely enough for Mary and George to enter before shutting it to the others still gathered in vigil on the other side. Mary quickly took in her surroundings, finding Carson sitting in his bed propped up by two pillows looking fairly well except for the obvious grimace across his features. He was in pain.

"What has happened?" Mary inquired quickly, moving towards the bed and sitting in the chair set up beside it. "Are you alright, Carson?" "

I am fine, my lady," Carson replied stoically, suddenly stifling a cry of pain as he shifted his body slightly to accommodate her presence.

"You are clearly not fine," Mary stated, turning her concern to Mrs. Hughes as her eyes pleaded for answers.

"Mr. Carson fell and his injured his wrist," Mrs. Hughes stated, moving towards the bed until she towered over Mr. Carson, daring him to challenge her as she continued. "He is in a great deal of pain, even though he will not admit to it."

"I am not in pain, Mrs. Hughes," Carson replied with as much indignation as he could muster. "I am simply a bit uncomfortable."

"That's like saying the Pope is a bit Catholic," Mrs. Hughes returned, shaking her head at the maddening stubbornness of the man before turning her attention to one of the few people to whom he would listen without protest.

"How did this happen?" Mary asked, clearly confused as she had never known Carson to lose his footing, her gaze resting upon the offending wrist that was at least twice its normal size and somewhat discolored.

"A dog," Carson muttered so quietly that Mary was forced to lean forward in order to understand what he had just said.

"Dog! What dog?" Mary questioned, the story becoming more muddled in her mind rather than progressing towards clarity. "You cannot mean Isis."

"No, of course not," Carson returned indignantly. "Lord Grantham has made sure that Isis knows how to behave properly." He shook his head, his heavy brows knitting tightly together as he muttered, "It was some mongrel of Jimmy's."

"Jimmy has a dog?" Mary cut in, turning to Mrs. Hughes for an accurate translation of what she had just heard but certainly could not have understood correctly.

"Jimmy found a stray puppy in the back yard this morning and was trying to take care of it," Mrs. Hughes explained, a sigh escaping its confines as she shook her head in exasperation.

"Without my knowledge or consent, my lady!" Carson put in firmly, ensuring that his position in the matter was unmistakable.

"Well, the pup evidently broke free of his compound and was accidentally let in the back door," Mrs. Hughes explained, turning her face from Mary in embarrassment that such chaos had ensued under her watch. "He was running about down here and got under Mr. Carson's feet…"

"Oh, dear heavens," Mary put in, hushing George as he had clearly picked up the word "dog" in conversation and was repeating it faithfully in his excitement. "Where is the puppy now?"

"Ivy has him," Mrs. Hughes responded. "She took him outside and managed to create a small pin for him until we can figure out just where he belongs."

"Leave him there until Papa returns," Mary directed. "He may know if he belongs to one of the tenants."

"Very good, my lady," Mrs. Hughes returned.

"Perhaps we should hold Jimmy in the pin with the little monster," Carson suggested, his ire absolute. "A tighter leash would do him some good."

Mrs. Hughes's resulting frown put an end to that thought. "My lady, Dr. Clarkson is already on his way to the care for Mrs. Bates, but I have no doubt that Mr. Carson's wrist needs immediate medical attention."

"I agree," Mary acquiesced, watching Carson with concern as she reached out to touch his uninjured arm.

"I will not go to the hospital over something so trivial as a bruise on my wrist," Carson stated, looking at Mrs. Hughes as his eyebrows set in determination.

"You mean you will not go because you don't want to bruise you ego," Mrs. Hughes returned, dismissing him as she continued to speak with Mary. "What do you think we should do, my lady?"

Mary drew breath deeply, bouncing George upon her knee to keep him occupied even as tried to hand Carson his toy rabbit.

"Call Mrs. Crawley," Mary suggested, nodding as a plan formulated quickly in her mind. "She will know how to attend to an injured wrist, I'm sure, and Mr. Carson will not have to move in any manner that might cause him more discomfort." Nor injure his pride, Mary thought to herself, communicating her unspoken comment to Mrs. Hughes with an easily noted expression that the older lady read with aplomb.

"Very good, my lady," Mrs. Hughes replied, moving towards the door to put all that needed doing into motion.

"This is not necessary, my lady," Carson attempted, his pain contradicting him as he winced against his will.

"Of course it is, Carson," Mary replied, leaning in closer. "I want you to stay in bed and do nothing until Mrs. Crawley arrives to examine your wrist."

"But, my lady, there is so much to be done before-"

"Yes there is. But you must trust the staff that you and Mrs. Hughes have so expertly trained to take care of it," she interrupted, using her strongest weapon before the man could protest again. "Please, Carson. Do this for me."

"Alright, my lady," Carson acquiesced, still unhappy under the circumstances but unwilling to contradict her. "I shall not refuse you."

"Good," Mary returned, squeezing his arm in thanks. "I was counting on it."

She left him in Mrs. Hughes's capable care after the head housekeeper returned from making the necessary calls. She moved deftly back into the above-ground realm, arriving on the main floor just in time to hear an ear-piercing shriek emerge from the upstairs hallway. "Now what?" she breathed to herself, giving George a look of exasperation as he clapped his hands in glee over the unexpected excitement taking place around him. They were very nearly run over by the newest housemaid as the girl came thrashing down the stairs, so obviously agitated that she paid no heed to where she was running.

"What is in, Lillian?" Mary gasped, grasping the girl's arm as she tried to steady them both.

"A bat, my lady!" the maid squeaked, her tiny frame nearly shaking from fright. "There's a bat in the guest room!"

This could not be happening! What idiot had been tampering with Pandora's Box this afternoon?

"Which one?" Mary inquired, her gaze crawling up the steps, seeking direction as to what path it should continue traversing.

"I don't know," Lillian replied in a pitiful sob. "I can't tell one bat from the other, my lady."

"No—what guest room?" Mary demanded, her patience reaching its breaking point as disbelief played across her features, scanning the ceiling self-consciously for any sign of the nocturnal creature.

"The one next to Mr. Branson's room," Lillian answered, her mousy frame literally quaking as she chewed her lip in alarm. "There's a hole in the window, and..."

The distressed girl could not continue, her face looking as if she might just decide to get sick all over the staircase. Of course—it would be the room being prepared for the Duke and Duchess of Hartsford that now needed repairs. "Lillian, here is what I need you to do," Mary began, forcing a deliberate calm into her voice that she did not feel in order keep the maid from succumbing to absolute hysterics once again.

"Go and fetch Mr. Barrow immediately. Inform him that we have a bat trapped in the guestroom and ask him to bring the appropriate materials to capture it." Her orders were met by a wide-eyed silence that miffed her as she waited for the housemaid to answer. Lillian's chin began to quiver, her freckled cheeks pinching unnaturally as Mary realized in utter aggravation that the girl was going to cry. "You must pull yourself together, Lillian," she demanded, leaning closer to emphasize that there was no question of disobedience in this matter. "Please go find Mr. Barrow—now!"

"Yes, my lady," she managed, hiding her gray eyes from the intimidating figure before her. "But…but…"

"But what?" Mary cried, her reserves now completely depleted.

Lillian continued to worry her bottom lip, finally mumbling under her breath, "It's not exactly trapped."

It took but a moment for her words to register, adding note of alarm to her voice as she inquired, "The bat, you mean? Am I to understand that the door to the guestroom has been left open?"

It was all Lillian could stand. The girl burst into pitiful sobs loud enough to make Mary grit her teeth and to summon Mrs. Hughes.

"For heaven's sake, Lillian, what is the matter?" Mrs. Hughes asked, her voice incredulous as she stood over the pitiful form.

The little maid continued to sob, forcing Mary's eyes to roll in agitation as she explained, "Evidently the storm has damaged one of the windows in the guestroom beside Mr. Branson's room, thus allowing a bat to come inside. However, the larger problem is the fact that the door to the guestroom has evidently been left standing open, so we cannot be certain of where the bat is now located."

Mrs. Hughes quickly surmised the situation, nodding her head quickly as she stated, "I shall explain the situation to Mr. Barrow at once, my lady. I am sorry you have had to be bothered with this." She then turned her attention to Lillian, giving her a glare that brokered no disagreement as she stated firmly, "And you, Lillian Barnes, will march yourself right upstairs this very minute and shut that guestroom door you should have never left open in the first place!"

"Yes, ma'am," Lillian blubbered, disappearing with the speed of a trapped hare back up the stairs, her sobs leaving a trail behind her as she went. Mary closed her eyes, letting out a sigh as George began to utter, "Bat! Bat!"

"You should take him on up to the nursery, my lady," Mrs. Hughes suggested. "I daresay that both of you could use a bit of a rest after all of this activity."

"As long as I'm sure that blasted bat hasn't already found its way into the nursery," Mary replied, Mrs. Hughes nodding her head in agreement.

"I'll send Jimmy up to check," she suggested, smiling when she received Mary's nod of approval. "I can have you some tea sent to you in the Sitting Room in the mean time, if you'd like."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Mary replied, her body sensing the pleasure of a cup of tea just at its mention. "We shall do just that."

Mary watched the older woman once again depart, suddenly awash in appreciation for everything she took care of so very expertly. "Bat! Bat!" George kept repeating, clapping his hands together as him mother turned her gaze back to him.

"No, my boy," she began, kissing his cheek and lingering over his sweet scent. "I believe I would prefer some tea."

"Prefer it to what?" Tom asked, making his way in from the main entrance with Sybbie in his arms.

"Bats," Mary replied calmly, moving in his direction as George attempted to grab Sybbie's hair. "And dogs. And doctors."

"Sounds like you have had quite an afternoon," Tom returned, his genuine grin irritating her frazzled demeanor.

"You have no idea," Mary declared, both of them spinning about-face as yet another commotion sounded from behind them.

"What on earth?" Tom muttered, setting Sybbie down quietly beside Mary who took the little girl's hand within hers as he made his way towards the mêlée. A blur of brown fur suddenly pounced into the main hall, delighted yips filling the walls as George began to squeal in pure delight. "Dog! Dog!" Mary was frozen, feeling a bit as if she had stepped through the looking glass as Tom shot her a look of confusion and then took up the chase, Jimmy following closely behind him.

The pup made a mad dash up the steps, shooting down the hallway before either man had made it up the stairs. Tom and Jimmy went in opposite directions upon reaching the landing, clearly expecting the divide and conquer strategy to save the day. Mary and the children remained where they were, suddenly greeted by another one of Lillian's shrieks, a rather loud exclamation from Jimmy, and the unmistakable sounds of a crash and rather sickening thud.

"Daddy!" Sybbie cried, taking off like a shot as her tiny hand slid out of Mary's before the she could react. The child ran to the stair case, her chubby little legs thankfully no match for the long ones of her aunt as Mary reclaimed her grasp and led both children to the second floor, hesitantly panting to see just what calamity had taken place. She did not have to wait long. Tom and Jimmy rounded the corner, Jimmy clasping the guilty puppy to his chest as Tom held two halves of what had once been a priceless vase.

"Jimmy, get that dog out of the house immediately," Mary demanded with decidedly more calm than she felt.

"Yes, my lady," Jimmy stated, his head hung low as he attempted to quell a small nose-bleed undeniably procured during the frantic chase.

"Doggie!" Sybbie demanded as the footman walked by, trying her hardest to break free yet again but being overruled. Mary just gazed at Tom, a flinching in her eyes communicating a sickening truth to her brother-in-law.

"Is it valuable?" he asked, his dread of her answer clearly readable on his expression.

"Oh, yes," Mary replied, her gaze wider than usual as she stared at the broken shards in his hands. "And one of Mama's favorites, I'm afraid."

"I see," Tom accepted, nodding to himself as he studied the carpet a moment. "So which do you think she likes better? Me or the vase?"

Both of their hearts nearly stopped beating as they were suddenly made aware of the fact that the car was now pulling up in front of the house. Cora had returned.

"If it weren't for Sybbie, I am afraid she might hang you out to dry over this one," Mary warned, no amount of teasing in her voice as she struggled to contain both children, her eyes flitting between Tom and the entrance.

"So what should I tell her?" Tom wondered, looking to his sister-in-law for her honest opinion, praying she would allow him to lie.

"That is your decision, of course," she answered, shaking her head as she began to make her way back downstairs. "But if I were you, I would blame the dog."

* * *

Mary stood in the nursery, silently rejoicing in her personal triumph. She had finally managed to get both children down for the night, and she felt no small amount of satisfaction over such a feat. Both dark heads now lay still in slumber, Sybbie clutching her favorite blanket closely to her heart while George's thumb rested contentedly in his mouth. Mary had thought him over the habit he had developed when was so very small it almost hurt to remember, but there were times that he still drew it into his mouth for comfort. And the sight of him in such a position melted her in a way nothing else in her life ever could.

George and Sybbie had been beside themselves at the very sight of a puppy, and one that had managed to lead half of the household on a merry chase throughout Downton was simply all the more enticing. Sybbie had pouted until Tom took her and George out back to see the furry rascal, although Mary suspected his hasty retreat to the outdoors had more to do with his mother-in-law's displeasure than any affection for the miscreant canine. Cora had not come to Downton alone, but rather with Isobel in tow. She had stopped by Crawley House after posting the advertisement for a lady's maid only to discover that a massive tree limb had actually fallen on Isobel's roof during the storm causing a decent amount of damage to her residence, not to mention some very pesky leaks in the upstairs ceilings. Cora had of course promptly insisted that Isobel stay with them at Downton for a few days until the damage could be repaired. Then Mary had to inform her that one of the guest rooms was currently out of commission due to a broken window pane. And that one of her most prized possessions had been demolished by a stray puppy. And that a bat was currently loose somewhere in the Abbey.

Oh—had she yet mentioned that Carson was now bed-ridden with an injured wrist and that everyone would so very much appreciate it if Isobel would check on the poor man?

Mary could not remember the last time she had seen her mother truly speechless. Mrs. Hughes brought the promised tea at just the right moment, ushering Lady Grantham into her Sitting Room with gentleness as Isobel made her way downstairs to take charge of Mr. Carson. And Mary stood in the middle of the great hall alone, afraid to move less some other catastrophe be unleashed. When she finally dared to step away from her newly appointed spot, Mary made her way back downstairs to check on Carson herself. She was just in time to hear some good news as Isobel pronounced that Carson's wrist was not broken but merely sprained. The utter relief at her diagnosis was heady, and Mary felt the elation course through her, staring at Carson in delight as he shifted on the bed to stand and return to his duties, a newly-crafted sling now supporting his arm. The butler was deflated, however, when Mrs. Crawley contended that he still needed several days of bed rest in order to allow it to heal properly.

"But I do not have a few days to spare, Mrs. Crawley," Carson had defied, attempting not to wince in pain at the slightest movement. "We have guests arriving in just over twenty-four hours."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Carson, but my advice to you still stands," Isobel returned, her voice commanding an equal amount of authority to the man's sitting in front of her. "That wrist will only get worse if you push yourself too hard too quickly, I'm afraid. Better to let it heal gradually. I am certain Dr. Clarkson would give you the same advice if you asked him."

Mary watched Carson struggle to conceive of the idea of the Crawley's hosting a house party without being able to properly supervise every detail. She could easily read how the very idea of turning over the reigns to Thomas was sitting like a stone in his stomach, his face looking as if he had just eaten something quite bitter.

"What if I asked Molesley to assist at Downton while I am staying here?" Isobel offered, beaming broadly at her suggestion as Carson's brows drew perilously high. Mary and Mrs. Hughes glanced at each other, both women fighting to contain the grins threatening break free at the contrast of expressions on the pair facing them.

"That is a lovely suggestion, Mrs. Crawley," Mrs. Hughes offered, stepping nearer to the impending outburst as Carson's chest grew more and more inflated. "What do you think, my lady?"

Mary forcibly composed herself, suddenly having difficulty looking Mrs. Hughes in the eye as she replied, "That is quite generous of you, Mrs. Crawley. I am certain that Mr. Molesley would be of great assistance while we are caring for so many guests."

"But will it not be an imposition on you, Mrs. Crawley?" Carson tried, falling back in pain as he attempted to sit taller.

"Of course not," Isobel returned, assisting the man back into bed as he looked to Mary in desperation. "

Then it is settled," Mary stated, feeling a prick in heart at the look of utter disappointment in Carson's face at her response. She walked up to the bed, laid a hand upon his shoulder and drew as near as she could. "You must rest and get better, Carson, or I shall never forgive you." His face melted under her gaze, the adoration he held for her touching her so purely as she added, "George and I would be quite lost without you, you know."

"Very well, my lady," he replied, his voice holding a tenderness that was reserved especially for her. "I shall instruct Mr. Barrow and Mr. Molesley in their duties this evening."

"Thank you, Carson," Mary concluded, squeezing his shoulder gently as she took her leave. She met her mother, now somewhat recovered, in the sitting room, Cora motioning for her daughter to join her for some tea.

"We have just received word from Dr. Clarkson that Anna has been experiencing false labor pains," Cora began, stirring her tea before raising the cup to her lips, closing her eyes as she allowed herself the pleasure of feeling it blaze a warm passage through her body. "He has advised her to remain in bed until the baby arrives, so naturally I insisted that she do so."

"Naturally," Mary agreed, pouring herself a cup as she waited patiently for her mother to unburden herself.

"I spoke with Lady Catherine just before she and Mr. Blake left your grandmother's house," Cora began, subtly watching Mary's face with interest.

"And?" Mary questioned, her expression deliberately neutral.

"And she knows of someone who might just do very well as your new lady's maid," Cora completed, a small smile finally flitting across her face.

"Really?" Mary stated, startled that Lady Catherine would have a suggestion so readily when she had just recently moved back to the area. "When can we meet her?"

"Tomorrow," Cora stated, relief crossing her features as she set down her cup and saucer on the table. "I am hopeful this young woman will at least be skilled enough to get us through this house party. Without Carson, Anna and Nanny Rodgers, we are dreadfully short-handed."

"It would be quite helpful," Mary admitted, looking to her mother in interest. "And the temporary nanny? Did you have any success on that front?"

"Actually, Mrs. Patmore asked to speak with me right before I even left this morning," Cora began, reclaiming her tea as her eyes became animated. "It seems that she has a niece nearby who is looking for work as a nanny, and she wondered if we might be willing to give her a start."

An image of just what Mrs. Patmore's niece might be like flashed across Mary's mind, making her shutter.

"And what did you say?" Mary inquired, already dreading the answer of which she was certain.

"I told her that we would be delighted to meet her niece to see if she would be suitable for the position," Cora answered, her smile daring her daughter to challenge her on this issue. Mary decided that after the time everyone had experienced over the past few hours, an argument was decidedly the last thing she would willingly take on. So she simply sipped her tea, anticipating just what Tom's reaction would be to the idea of a younger Mrs. Patmore taking charge of the children.

Tom finally brought the pair in nearly an hour later, every crevice of each caked with mud to the point of it almost being comical. Almost being the key word.

"I'm not sure who is the worse for wear," Mary sighed, taking in the three of them with a glance that left only George delightfully oblivious to her displeasure.

"Don't worry. I'll see to their baths, Mary," Tom offered, moving towards the steps with the children in his bare feet. "

You will see to your own bath, Tom Branson," Mary demanded, moving in front of the scraggly trio as she led them up the steps. "I shall see to the children. And just where did you leave your shoes, pray? Or did that dastardly dog eat them?"

Tom hung his head sheepishly as he grudgingly admitted, "Mrs. Hughes made me take them off before I was allowed to come into the house." Yet another thing for which she had to thank the woman. Mrs. Hughes was quickly becoming Mary's hero of the hour.

Finally—finally everyone was bathed, cleaned, fed and properly put down for the night. And Mary could not bring herself to move from this spot in the nursery where at least for the moment no bat dwelled and no miniature canine wreaked havoc. It was a delicious shred of peace that she greedily tucked away in her heart, unwilling to chance walking out the magical door into the rest of Downton. Tom sneaked in behind her, taking in the precious scene before quietly padding to the trundle bed where his daughter lay sleeping. He effortlessly scooped her up in his arms, kissed her temple, and nodded to Mary in utmost thanks as he silently carried her back to her own bed. She followed him out but moved towards her own bedroom to ready herself for sleep. Isobel had insisted that she would be delighted to stay in the nursery with George tonight, and it was evident that the woman's enthusiasm was genuine. The boy had been doing so much better, but Mary knew that fevers were most likely to return at night, and peroxide drops were still being administered to his ear in order to ensure that the infection was completely gone. But tonight he was soundly asleep, lying contentedly in his own crib where she prayed he would remain for at least the majority of the hours awaiting his grandmother.

And Mary had assured her that she would come to her assistance if Isobel needed some relief, although she fervently hoped that this night would be an easier one on her son than the last. She could not help but wonder just how much more difficult it would have been had Mr. Blake not bravely knocked on the door to her tower.

Mary entered her bedroom, quickly divesting herself of all garments and sliding into the absolute comfort of her favorite nightgown. She moved to her vanity to retrieve her hairbrush, preparing to indulge in her favorite nighttime ritual that relaxed her so utterly. But she froze where she stood. Her heart began to thud as she spotted something else unexpected perched on her vanity, lying in wait for her as she approached it with careful hesitation.

Sitting on the smooth surface was Mr. Blake's handkerchief, neatly folded and covering the top corner of a hand-written note. And resting atop the note was a crimson rose, just beginning to open, its petals still tightly hewn together as if they hid their beauty in fear of opening to the world around them. She gathered all three to her with trembling fingers, indulging herself in the rose's heady aroma, noting that all hazardous thorns had been carefully plucked from its stem. She then turned her gaze to the letter, half-afraid yet eager all the same to read the words written by the man who had just been occupying her thoughts.

The text scrolled by a decidedly masculine hand beckoned her, drawing her attention to words boldly penned in a gentle spirit. And what had been written took her very breath.

_"She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest."_

_~From "The Day-Dream—The Sleeping Beauty" by Alfred Lord Tennyson_

_Lady Mary, I must tell you just how truly I look forward to some most lively discussion over the ill-fated Briar Rose and her legendary century-long nap. And please do not give me up to your gracious mother… I simply had to liberate this exquisite rose from her garden. There it was, a lone, late bloomer just opening up to the world even as the rest of the foliage was clearly preparing for a long winter's slumber, assuredly akin to the one taken by The Sleeping Beauty. I thought it would be much happier in the warm confines of your dwelling chamber, so I relocated it to its proper place._

_And fear not. I have not forgotten my promise to quote you no sonnets. However, this is actually narrative poetry related to our prescribed reading material so I thought it might be safe, especially as I am copying it to paper rather than whispering it in your ear. If I have incurred your ire over this matter, however, I shall willingly accept the consequences of my misbehavior and brace myself for some long discussions of "Clever Hans"._

_Always at your disposal,_

_C.B._

Mary was stunned. This was a clearly a subtle invitation to a courtship, an inquiry as to whether or not she would consent to a dance. She was extremely thankful that she stood in her bedroom alone as she reread the letter, the bewildering effects of this tender statement of his intentions towards her far too private to share with anyone. She languidly drew the rose petals softly across her cheek with trembling fingers, their silken texture leaving a breathless trail across her skin.

And at that very moment, the lights went off.

Mary stood in complete darkness save what little light crept through her window as she realized unflinchingly that the electricity had just given out. How very convenient that this latest disruption had waited until this moment, almost as if the fates had taken a small measure of pity on the residents of Downton after all of the oddities that had reigned down upon them this day. She dearly hoped that no one would be caught unawares without a candle or torch to guide their steps as she directed her own stealthily to the side of her bed.

She carefully laid down the rose and the note onto the nightstand, rubbing the handkerchief slowly across her palms another moment before resting it against her cheek. Mary closed her eyes, seeing its rightful owner in a fresh light even as she was enveloped in a darkness she found oddly comforting. A trace of his scent still lingered lightly upon the fabric, bringing his coat that he had wrapped around her despite her indignation fondly to mind. She gingerly returned it to its companions, laying down upon her mattress and cocooning herself amidst the warmth of her blankets. Mary then slid her arm into her pillowcase, pushing it forward until her fingers grasped the small token they sought, clutching the small treasure in devotion as she thought back to the day so many years ago when she had placed it in Matthew's gloved hand before he departed for the front.

_You must promise to bring it back._

She had been unwilling to pass this on to George, for in her heart it was as valuable as her wedding ring. It had been carefully placed with utmost care into her pillowcase that first surreal night when she was forced to return from the hospital alone, and there it had remained every night since. It was a tactual piece of Matthew that remained with her, somehow making her feel a bit safer as in her mind it represented his watch-care. For a few moments, Mary simply laid in silence, wondering at the irony of being hemmed in protectively on one side by the man she had so deeply loved and the other by this new gentlemen who seemed intent upon her re-awakening. She extended her reach back to the nightstand, grasping the soft material awaiting her and drawing it into the bed. And after a while, she finally fell asleep, feeling comforted as she clutched the sacred dog in one hand and clasped the soothing handkerchief in the other.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary braves returning to the hospital and learns of Lady Catherine's past. Trigger warning: Non-graphic discussion of rape.

Well, at least the interviews had gone well.

The day up to this point had already been a robust swirl of mish-mashed and secretly frenzied activities that truly had no bearing upon each other but somehow fit into the complex puzzle that made up the framework of Downton. The broken windows in the guest room were in the process of being repaired, the infamous runaway bat had still not been located, much less apprehended, and Lord Grantham had informed the already over-taxed household that the electricity would be unreliable over the next several days as repairs were being made as hastily as possible upon storm-damaged lines in the area. Anna was obediently observing Dr. Clarkson's prescribed bed rest, although Bates had unflinchingly arrived for work at his appointed hour. Carson was still quite grumpily enduring forcibly restricted activity with as much dignity as he could muster while the owner of the mischievous puppy that Sybbie had unfortunately christened Biscuit had yet to be located. And a houseful of guests was expected to arrive at Downton tomorrow afternoon.

The situation could hardly be more laughable.

Sitting down was nearly impossible, a restless energy pressing Mary forward to her utter annoyance, the natural outcome of too many changes converging upon her within mere days of each other. How drastically different her life now stood from its state even one week ago. Yet she could find little time to process this insistent onslaught as she and her mother had awaited the first arrival of the two young women being considered as additions to the household staff. She had so desperately wanted to be done with the entire process, being absolutely certain that absolutely no one—even one of Briar Rose's good fairies—could ever sufficiently replace Anna Bates as her lady's maid. But failing to find a replacement was not an option, and it needed to be done with utmost haste, for Anna was no longer able to assist her in that capacity. So Mary had waited and paced as she attempted to at least try to hold her cynicism at bay, hoping that the woman so highly spoken of by Lady Catherine would at least be somewhat suitable.

And that the illusive bat would not suddenly decide to make an appearance.

The icing on the proverbial cake had been that they would have the chance to meet Mrs. Patmore's niece, as well. Mary liked Mrs. Patmore well enough, but had been unable to even remotely conceive of the woman or anyone related to her actually holding a post that required her to work with small children for an extended period of time. Of course, Mary had understood that her niece might be nothing like her rather fearsome aunt, but she had been completely unable to get the ridiculous image of a younger even bossier version of their accomplished cook out of her head, and apparently, neither could Tom. The expression on his face when she had told him of the nanny candidate's identity had been priceless.

Miss Glynis Campbell had arrived during the late morning hours, and Mary found herself fairly impressed with the young woman despite her innate misgivings concerning the entire situation. She was not much taller than Anna with a similar build and frame. But the comparisons stopped there as Ms. Campbell had much darker hair—a rich brown that rather unfortunately reminded Mary of the vast amount of caked mud she had scraped off of two irritable children the evening before—and wore round glasses that at least gave the impression of an intelligent mind. Her accent instantly identified her as a Scot, the joyful lilt rather pleasantly soothing to her ears, and Mary could not help but wonder at just how she had come to look for a position of lady's maid this far south. Despite Mary's curiosity concerning her background, Miss Campbell had left a most favorable impression on both Crawley women, answering any question directly and with a clarity of mind that both she and her mother readily appreciated. The young woman seemed to possess both the skills and demeanor to at least be given an opportunity to fill the gaping hole left by Anna, and Mary had quietly determined that she seemed likable enough.

At least there was nothing striking in girl's personality that made her skin bristle, and that could be the foundation for a decent start. Thank God she was no O'Brian.

Glynis had also noted her sincere appreciation of Lady Catherine's recommendation at least three times during the interview, each time referring to her as Headmistress Blake. The girl clearly held the older woman in deepest reverence, readily informing both Cora and Mary of just how strong an influence their anticipated guest had issued over her life, going so far to even making a reference to the older woman saving it at one point. Mary had been forcibly struck again by the understanding that there were so very many facets of Lady Catherine that remained quite unknown. It prompted her to anticipate their next conversation with increasing eagerness, and she was quietly determined to learn more answers to the intriguing past of Charles Blake's aunt. And perhaps even more about the man himself...whose company she already missed much more than she was ready to admit.

Ms. Campbell's sterling references and her eagerness to work coupled with the dire need for someone to fill the position prompted Cora and Mary to offer the young lady the job on the spot. The sheer delight that shown across her face could not help but make Mary smile in return, praying sincerely that the right decision had been made even as a part of her grieved the loss of Anna yet again. She was so dreadfully weary of losing people close to her. Mary had called to check upon Anna as they awaited the arrival of Ms. Ruth Thompson, Tom joining their merry little band as the interview for temporary nanny would commence upon her arrival. Her brother-in-law had taken delight in offering up idea after idea of the anticipated young woman's appearance, both Cora and Mary rolling their eyes at his idle chatter filled the room with rather unflattering adjectives more than once. But all three of them had stared in tangible amazement when Ms. Thompson was shown into the room.

She was a full head taller than either Mary or Cora, with blazing red hair that had been neatly pinned up, highlighting a long, alabaster neck and graceful shoulders that lended her the appearance of a Greek statue come to life in bright color. Her eyes were an odd mix of green and golden that made Mary think of an Egyptian cat sitting regally silent among other artifacts of great value. And as all of these factors processed through her mind, Mary realized that Ruth Thompson looked almost exactly as she had always pictured the ill-fated Gwenivere, Queen of Camelot when she had read the great legends as a younger woman.

So this was Mrs. Patmore's niece. How utterly surprising.

As Mary dared a glance to her left, she nearly laughed out loud at Tom's expression, his gaping mouth frozen, the remainder of his body immobile as he stared at the woman before them in an absolute stupor. As Cora finally stepped forward to welcome the young lady, Mary subtly nudged the poor man, leaning over to whisper in his ear, "Please refrain from drooling on the rug, Tom. It is rather unseemly behavior." She had rarely seen her brother-in-law blush, but the color that swept his face was actually comical, somehow putting Mary at ease in a manner she welcomed most heartily as she understood at last that she was not the only one in her situation noticing an attractive member of the opposite sex.

Of course, she had progressed rather markedly from simply noticing Charles Blake over the past few days, and she had to concentrate rather firmly on forbidding her own cheeks to burn uncomfortably as she envisioned words he had written to her, scorched into her memory by privately repeated readings this morning as she had sat at her vanity. His offering had affected her vastly more than it should have done. She had actually caught herself longing for the man to break the very promises he had made to her just yesterday in good faith, wondering with a heated shiver just what it would feel like to have him whisper a sonnet in her ear, how his breath would feel just barely caressing her neck in delicious madness as his words stroked her mind. Her intoxicated thoughts then drifted helplessly to his lips, imagining the sensation of them ever so softly brushing her cheek...and the utter tenderness of how his fingertips might tease their way down her shoulders…the forbidden comfort of large hands encompassing her and drawing her hopelessly in, sheltering her as they hypnotically warmed her back...the heady possibility of his generous mouth moving on her…

Dear God! What was she doing? A warm ache had began to pulse insistently deep in the private recesses of her being, a need she both recognized and feared as it began to tightly encircle her in a most tantalizing vice while she was so still so frighteningly unsure of just how to deal with such a beast. She wanted to both feed it and starve it into oblivion as its primal claws recklessly burned under her skin as wildfire, threatening to spread its encompassing heat insatiably into every pore of her skin until she would surely burn alive. She had berated herself for allowing indulgence in such thoughts about a man other than Matthew, half-despising herself for dwelling upon their temptation even as she utterly refused to step back from their heady influence. But the reality was there before her, whether she chose to embrace or shun it: she much preferred the warmth and uncertainty now pealing within her to the gaping black void of despair in which she had been dwelling.

She did not want to go back. Yet she was terrified of moving forward.

The insistent clearing of her mother's throat had yanked Mary from her unmentionable musings, making her forcibly shove such impossible thoughts aside as she pushed Charles Blake from her mind. She determinedly greeted Ruth Thompson, the quiet timbre of the girl's voice another pleasantly unexpected shock, and sat down to commence with the interview. But her wayward thoughts had continued their dance around his letter, her reckless senses wafting near the rose, taking up the forbidden waltz as she realized that the insufferable man had managed to successfully dismantle a portion of her wall. Perhaps she should don that battle armor that he had suggested she throw down from the tower as the iron in her skin seemed to be melting at a rather alarming rate.

The interview had proceeded without incident, Mary continually trying unsuccessfully to remain focused upon the task at hand while Tom seemed to be unnaturally tongue-tied and flustered with himself. Cora had taken it all in stride, and if she had noticed any anomalies in the behaviors and demeanors of her daughter and son-in-law, she very tactfully kept it to herself. Ms. Thompson had seemed to possess a gentle spirit, much more akin to Mrs. Hughes than Mrs. Patmore, Mary pondered to herself, and at the end of the interview she had no misgivings about allowing the girl to care for the children until Anna was able to assume her new post. When they had allowed her to meet the children, Sybbie was instantly in awe of this exceedingly tall woman who stood regally over them, her appearance so similar to a Celtic goddess of old that it was almost startling. But her soothing voice and gentle personality soon put the girl at ease as she led Ms. Thompson upstairs to show the young woman her favorite doll. George had smiled at her, commencing to play a game of cheerful hide and seek against his mother's shoulder as he would smile at the new woman before him but not yet risk flying into her arms. Ruth Thompson took the boy's shyness in stride, stroking his hair good-naturedly before taking Sybbie's hand as she was led up the steps by the eager little girl.

Mary pondered the irony of just how similar her and George's respective situations actually were, both of them intrigued by this engaging new person in their midst yet not quite ready to take a flying leap into their embrace. Of course, George would probably give into Ms. Thompson's charms within a few minutes, her son still filled with the trusting innocence that only children could truly possess. As for how long she would be able to resist the allure of Charles Blake, she truly had no idea. But the very image of him scaling her walls made her shiver in more ways than one as she continued to balance herself on the ledge spanning hesitant excitement and crippling guilt, afraid to move lest she lose her balance.

Both positions now filled to everyone's satisfaction, Mary had known it was time to flee the confines of the house and take a walk to clear her head. But the destination to which she needed to journey filled her with a sickening dread, the one place she had attempted to avoid at all cost since her stay there one year ago was the very location to which George had to sojourn to have his ears re-examined. Mary had to take her son to the hospital.

Isobel had offered to accompany her as she was already preparing to make the trip herself, desiring both to check on the repairs to her roof and to offer assistance with today's patients. Mary was also certain that it gave her mother-in-law an excellent excuse to see Dr. Clarkson, no matter how busy the man might be today, but whatever her motives she was immensely glad of the company as they made their way into the village. Isobel understood fully the measure of difficulty Mary experienced at the thought of returning to the site which she held in an odd mixture of reverence and abhorrence. Here she had given birth to her son, had held him for the first time and stared at him in speechless wonder as a love she had never before known blossomed unbidden within her. Here she had spent her final sacred moments with Matthew—the only time that she and George had been a complete family with the man who had loved her in every manner possible and granted their boy life. And here she had been ripped asunder as her mother had grasped her hands and so quietly spoke the most horrid words she had ever heard uttered, plunging her into a darkness that had encompassed every fiber of her being for so very long.

And suddenly, they had arrived.

Mary paused, struggling to keep panic at bay as she felt its invasive tendrils coil restrictively around her chest, reminding herself with as much reason as she could muster to breathe steadily and keep her mind focused upon her appointed task. She had to overcome this unwelcome reaction somehow.

"You do not have to do this, Mary," Isobel offered, looking to her daughter-in-law with concern. "I can take George inside for his check-up and meet you later when it is over."

"No, but thank you," Mary returned, facing Isobel squarely, her voice carrying more resolve than she felt. "I cannot avoid the hospital for the rest of my life, you know. I have to conquer this, so I might as well begin now."

"Very good," Isobel replied, reaching over to squeeze the younger woman's hand in solidarity as she donned her own emotional shield. "But if you'd rather, I can take him upstairs so you won't have to..."

Her sudden silence spoke volumes. Mary knew that Isobel was so very gallantly offering to shelter her from the harsh reality of walking past her room...the room where her life had been forever altered in more ways than could ever be feasibly counted. And as unsure as she still remained of her own strength, Mary grasped on to the partial solution thoughtfully placed before her by this woman she held so very dear.

"Thank you, Isobel. That might be for the best."

"Think nothing of it, dear," Isobel replied, grasping her giggling grandson into her arms as the trio began to forge a path up the stairs. "One step at a time, Mary."

But she still stopped frozen the precise moment that they reached the front door.

"It's alright, my dear girl," Isobel reassured her, somehow bolstering her own steadfast bravery as she encouraged her daughter-in-law. "We have already come through the fire, you and I. This structure of bricks holds no power of us."

"You are right," Mary stated, amazed at the spark of resolve that suddenly took root within her. "This is just a building."

And with that thought, they all walked through the door.

* * *

She had grown tired of sitting in the corridor all too quickly. Perhaps waiting for Isobel and George had not been as good an idea as both women had previously supposed as it allowed her mind to wander too freely down the halls. Mary was desperately forbidding herself to visualize images of Matthew making his final exit from this building, of her parents trudging through the entrance bearing a burden too terrible to even contemplate, of cradling her son in blissful ignorance just before the glass walls of her world shattered into gruesome shards around them.

No. Sitting idly was rapidly becoming her worst enemy, but she steadfastly refused to leave and let this place continue to hold sway over her in such a suffocating manner. So she stood in resolve and began to walk, hoping that no one would question her motives for encircling the first floor as many times as necessary. Mary rounded a corner that led to a small number of small, private rooms. The first was clearly unoccupied, the door standing open to reveal a perfectly made bed as sunlight streamed through the window. Her steps then took her to another chamber, and she had to stop quickly in mid-stride as the door opened towards her, blocking her view for a moment until she saw a nurse step out.

"I shall see you this evening, Lady Catherine," the woman stated into the room before traversing to see other patients, somehow not even noticing Mary as she remained motionless behind the open door. "Would you like me to leave the door open again?"

"Yes, dear," a quiet, familiar voice returned from within the confines of the room, its speaker invisible but recognizable beyond a doubt. "And thank you so very much for your kindness."

The nurse then went on her way, Mary concentrating on not breathing too loudly as she pondered the situation before her. Lady Catherine was in the hospital? Why had no one informed her? Had her mother not told her but yesterday that she had seen Charles Blake and his aunt just before they departed for York? Something must have happened, but would Granny not have informed her of such an occurrence? And just where was Mr. Blake—and why had he not contacted her about this? Why she suddenly felt as if he owed her an explanation for both his and his aunt's whereabouts startled her momentarily, but she did feel a decent modicum of disappointment that he had not at least informed her of something as serious as his aunt being ill. Mary had thought...well, it did not matter what she thought. The reality of the situation was right before her, but she would never know the entirety of it if she did not knock on the door.

"Come in," Lady Catherine's pleasant voice beckoned at Mary's summons, laying a measure of worry upon her heart as she could plainly hear that the sound was weaker than it had been but two days ago at her grandmother's house. Mary drew a breath and stepped into the doorframe, giving the older woman a smile as she greeted her.

"Hello, Lady Catherine," she began, taking the liberty of entering the room and shutting the door behind her.

"Lady Mary," the older woman stated with surprise. "How delightful it is to see you again."

"I am delighted to see you, as well," Mary returned, taking the chair by the bed that Lady Catherine motioned to without delay. "Although it does distress me to see you in such circumstances."

"Oh, I am alright," Lady Catherine assured her, Mary not buying a word of it as she noted the pronounced paleness of the woman's pallor. "But how ever did you ever discover that I was here? Has your grandmother found me out?"

"So Granny does not know," Mary stated, one question at least being answered to her satisfaction. "I am afraid I discovered you by sheer luck. I just happened to be standing in the corridor when I heard the nurse addressing you."

Lady Catherine smiled in response and shook her head.

"I suppose one's secrets will always be found out," she stated with a grin, reaching for Mary's hand and gently squeezing it in affection.

"Why would you want no one to know?" Mary questioned, her brows drawing together in concern. "And what happened, Lady Catherine? My mother told me that she saw you looking in perfect health but yesterday."

"Oh, it's nothing, really," the older woman dismissed, her eyes still managing to sparkle even under the circumstances. "I had a little episode as Charles and I were driving back to York. We had barely left Downton village, so he turned the car around and brought me here."

"I see," Marty stated, pieces of a puzzle beginning to fit together in her mind. "And just what sort of episode did you suffer, may I ask?"

"My heart," Lady Catherine replied, a sigh escaping her as she smiled back. "It's just not as strong as it used to be, dear. One of the consequences of getting older, unfortunately."

"So you have experienced such occurrences before?" Mary inquired, her concern over the older woman's health rising with each statement she uttered.

"Oh, yes," Lady Catherine answered, "many times, unfortunately. That is one of the reasons that Charles sold the estate in India and came back to England. He feels it is his duty to take care of me, now, God bless him. I just hate to be a bother, especially when he has suffered so much difficulty in his life already."

He had sold everything and returned to tend to his aunt. Her heart swelled the tiniest bit in response, even though she was still irritated with the man for not informing her of Lady Catherine's hospitalization. And irritated with herself for allowing his secrecy to matter so much.

"So where is he now?" Mary finally asked, although this question had been in the forefront of her mind from the moment she realized the identity of this room's occupant.

"He had to return to York to gather some things for us," Lady Catherine answered. "Dr. Clarkson thinks it would be a good idea for me to stay another night or two, just until I am strong enough leave."

"Of course," she responded, her mind quickly adding the facts presented to her. "Did he stay at your home in York last night?"

"No, that stubborn boy," Lady Catherine sighed, shaking her head as she smiled indulgently in spite of herself. "I told him to find a room for himself somewhere in town, but he slept right here—in the very seat you are now occupying, actually."

So Charles Blake had now spent two subsequent nights sleeping in a chair, one of them watching over his aunt and the other looking after George. And taking care of her, as well.

"Well, he must stay at Downton tonight," Mary stated, her gaze and tone offering no room for disagreement. "You both are already expected tomorrow as it is, so it will be no hardship at all if he arrives one night early." She then cast a determined glance at Lady Catherine as she added, "And if he argues with you over the matter, just tell him that I shall be quite cross with him if he refuses and he will be forced to accept the consequences."

Lady Catherine's eyes lit up, fueled by intrigue as she replied, "I shall do just that, Lady Mary. I cannot wait to see the expression on his face when I have the opportunity to relay your message, for I am sure that you are quite adept at cooking up some most interesting consequences!"

Mary stared at the woman, suddenly feeling uncomfortably flush as she wondered if some odd sort of magic had relayed her intensely private thoughts from earlier in the day straight into Lady Catherine's imagination. Her eyes widened slightly, her discomfort heightened as the older woman continued, her eyes gleaming in great fun.

"Besides, if the invitation comes from you, I cannot imagine that he would refuse it."

Mortifying warmth crawled up within her, the implication of the words just spoken prickling her spine as they splintered off to wreak havoc throughout the remainder of her body. He would not refuse her—she was suddenly certain of it. And that fact raised the stakes between them immeasurably.

"I'm not sure just what you mean, Lady Catherine," Mary tried, pasting a forced, small smile upon her face as her eyes glittered unnaturally.

"Oh, hogwash," Lady Catherine corrected good-naturedly, Mary straightening her spine in an automatic defense. "Let's not pretend any more when there is simply no need, my dear. I know that the two of you met on the train from London, no matter how often and how loudly you both may protest."

What had she just said?

"And I am also most certain that my nephew is completely besotted with you," the older woman continued, pressing her advantage before Mary could offer a comment in return. "Although I doubt he would be very happy with me for telling you such things."

Mary's eyes flickered quickly back and forth, her mind attempting to match the speed of her pulse and failing miserably as she sat rather uncharacteristically dumbfounded. Besotted with her?

"Please, don't blame Charles, my dear," Lady Catherine intervened, reading the question in Mary's expression expertly. "He has not given you away in any fashion, I assure you. I simply put things together quite easily for myself as soon as I saw the two of you standing together at your grandmother's house. I may be old, but I do still have my wits about me, thankfully."

"Lady Catherine, I truly appreciate your candor, however, I believe you may be mistaken when it comes to your nephew's feelings for me," Mary attempted, unsure of how she had just been able to sound so reasonable as her thoughts were casting about in complete turmoil.

"Am I dear?" The words halted upon her intake of breath as Mary found she could not answer. She cast her eyes to her lap, the burn in her cheeks showing no hit of subsiding as she finally looked back at Lady Catherine in stunned mortification. "Don't worry. I haven't said a word to your grandmother," Lady Catherine continued sincerely, taking note of the younger woman's discomfort and striving to gradually put her at ease.

"Thank you for that," Mary stated, rewarded by a merry wink from the older woman whom she now realized observed the people around her with utmost clarity. And at the moment, that knowledge rather alarmed her.

"Do not mention it," she replied, her green eyes dancing as she leaned towards Mary and whispered conspiratorially, "Your grandmother doesn't need to know everything, now does she."

Mary attempted to grant the older woman a smile, her mouth and throat feeling unnaturally dry. The distinctive pinpricks of teardrops fighting to free themselves assaulted her as she struggled to see her way through this thicket of utter confusion by which she was now thoroughly surrounded. Matthew—oh, Matthew—she sill loved and mourned him to the depths of her soul, yet here she sat allowing her body and emotions to be swayed by another man. How was this even possible? Dear God, she despised feeling so ridiculously helpless. She should not be granting this new man a foothold in her life, it was too much! She was not ready for him, for this, for anything, in fact. He was just so...so...so very... Besotted? With her? It could not be. Yet the possibility kept slipping about in her mind, making it impossible for her to grasp in order to contain and make some sense of it. She wanted to cry out in sheer frustration, but held the tumult tightly within. What was she to do with the information Lady Catherine had just given her? Nothing at the moment, she decided firmly. This would have to be dealt with later. But for the present, Mary desperately needed to discuss something less personal, so she drew in a breath and pressed forward towards less threatening ground.

"I must thank you for your kind recommendation that you gave my mother. I had the privilege of meeting Glynis Campbell today," Mary began, noting a smile of surprised delight as Lady Catherine's response. "She came to Downton earlier for an interview."

"And did you like her, dear?" Lady Catherine inquired, leaning forward slightly in interest, taking up this new thread of conversation with aplomb.

"Yes," Mary responded, relishing the return appearance of at least a small measure of peace in her veins. "She made quite a favorable impression upon Mama and me, and I believe she may work out well. We offered her the position of lady's maid which she accepted immediately."

Lady Catherine sat up straighter, an expression of sheer delight astonishingly restoring a measure of youth to her features.

"I am delighted to hear it. Glynis is such a dear girl, and I truly hope she will do well for you."

"She certainly reveres you, that is for certain," Mary replied, giving Lady Catherine an inquisitive glance. "She seems to credit you for saving her life in some fashion."

An uncomfortable hush instantly descended upon the room.

"That is because I did," Lady Catherine finally spoke, her expression clearly revealing that she was weighing just how much to share with Mary and what should remained concealed. She then sighed, her eyes taking on the air of authority that would have been routinely donned by a headmistress as she once again took Mary's hand. "What I am about to tell you, dear, must remain in the strictest of confidence, you understand," Lady Catherine insisted, the gravity in her voice leaving no modicum of doubt as to the serious nature of the topic of discussion. "I have no desire to destroy a young life just as it sits on the threshold of blossoming."

"You have my word," Mary responded, a dull thudding of her heart the only sound she could hear save the muted noises coming from somewhere down the corridor.

"Good," Lady Catherine replied firmly, all frailty banned from her body as her past self took over. "You do not strike me as the type of person who would judge another unfairly."

"I hope not," Mary breathed, casting her eyes downward as she shook her head slightly. "Goodness knows I have no right to stand in judgment of anyone."

"None of us do, dear, but all too many relish the opportunity when it presents itself," the older woman stated flatly, the lines in her face settling with renewed weight. "I have known Glynis Campbell since she was a girl, you see. Her father runs a bakery that was quite near to the school at which I taught in Edinburgh."

"I believe you meant to say where you served as headmistress," Mary put in, daring the other woman to deny it and forcing a rueful grin upon Lady Catherine's face.

"I see that Glynis has given me away already," she laughed, shaking her head as the moment of levity vanished as if it never existed. "Yes, I had the honor of serving as headmistress for fifteen years, an accomplishment of which I am rather proud, I must admit."

"As you should be," Mary stated, still quite unsure of the direction in which their conversation was heading.

"I journeyed to their bakery at least once a week, and Mr. Campbell always took care of our staff and students very well. Glynis helped her father run the bakery, you see, after her mother died. She was such a sweet and smart little thing, and we would sometimes have the merriest conversations. I quickly came to realize that she possessed quite a keen mind, so I spoke with her father about allowing me to tutor her in her studies as she received very little proper schooling. He agreed, and so I began to meet with her weekly after the morning rush."

"That was very kind of you," Mary spoke, Lady Catherine's apparent zeal to help the less fortunate bringing her mother-in-law quickly to mind.

"One does what one can, Lady Mary, and what I could do was teach," the older woman replied, her cheeks lifting again in a small smile. "We studied history, philosophy, and mathematics, but her favorite subject was always literature. I was delivering a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ to her for our next project when it happened."

"When what happened?" Mary inquired, half-fearful of the answer even as she voiced the question.

"I knew something was amiss when I walked into the bakery and no one was there to greet me," Lady Catherine began, her gaze focusing squarely on a past revisiting her in the small hospital room. "I called out for Glynis, but no one answered, so I went in search of her. She was standing alone in the back panty with a knife poised over her wrist."

The statement had been uttered so factually that Mary wondered if she had heard it correctly.

"She meant to end her own life?" she questioned, unable to reconcile the collected young woman she had met but hours ago with the image of a distraught girl bent on self-destruction.

"Oh, yes," Lady Catherine breathed quietly, her green eyes clasping Mary's with vice-like precision. "She had been raped, you see."

Mary's heart stopped.

"An unknown delivery man had taken advantage of the fact that she was in the bakery alone that morning. He forced her into the back room and had his way with her." The weight in Lady Catherine's voice matched the one pressing upon Mary's chest, and she had to struggle to draw a deep breath as Lady Catherine added the unthinkable. "She was but sixteen years old."

"Dear God," Mary exhaled, feeling a sickening knot form in her gut. "How horrible for her."

"Yes, indeed," she returned, age settling firmly back upon her as she added, "and we both know what such an occurrence can do to a young girl's reputation and prospects, not to mention her emotional state, don't we?"

The pounding in Mary's head grew deafening.

"Yes, we do," she managed.

"I somehow spoke calmly to Glynis, letting her know that she could still have a future even if she couldn't see it at the moment. I finally convinced her to put down the knife and to come with me," Lady Catherine continued, "and I took her straight to my quarters at the school and got her cleaned up. Do you have any just idea how powerful the urge to bathe becomes, as if you can somehow wash off what has happened to you?"

"I can imagine," Mary whispered, licking her lips as their moisture suddenly evaporated, rubbing her arms with her hands unconsciously to quell the increasing discomfort welling up within her. She remembered that need all too clearly.

"Her father was completely broken over what had happened to her as any good father would be." Here she paused, taking a small sip of water as if to wash away the flint of steel Mary was certain she had heard flash in her voice. "I convinced him to allow me to take Glynis on as a pupil, on scholarship, of course, as her family could not afford it."

"That was very good of you," Mary responded, longing for a sip of water herself to soothe her parched palate.

"Not really, my dear," Lady Catherine voiced, looking intently at Mary as she uttered her next statement. "I knew I could help her, you see, for something very similar had happened to me."

Dear God—there it was—the answer to why a gentleman's daughter would find herself teaching at a girl's school in Scotland rather than marrying suitably and raising a family of her own. Lady Catherine had been cast out, sent away, a blemish on the face of her family through no fault of her own.

Damaged goods.

"I am so sorry," Mary breathed, still attempting to absorb this overload of information that continued to creep uncomfortably close—too close, in fact. "Did no one rise to your defense?"

Lady Catherine shook her head sadly, setting aside her water glass as she continued softly, "I was not assaulted in the manner that Glynis had been, you see. I had no bruises, no scratches, no bloody lip as that poor girl had to validate my claims. I was lured to the stables by a man I had once hoped to marry. He was a friend of my brother's, and I had thought him so terribly handsome and dashing. We flirted and danced, and I naively thought I would be safe with him." She coughed, the slight rattle in her chest alarming Mary as she retrieved the woman's water and assisted her in taking another sip. "I was so very ignorant to the ways of men," she continued after easing back into the pillow propped to accommodate her. "I believed it to be all innocent fun until the liberties he took ceased to be comfortable. I asked him to stop several times, but he had no intention of doing so until he had gotten exactly what he wanted from me."

The air hushed in reverence, a moment of silence acknowledging the pain and injustice that forever altered a life.

"He knew I would never scream for help when I was already compromised. I was too afraid to fight him off, too young to realize that he had knowingly led me as a lamb to the slaughter." She sighed heavily, shaking her head at the innocent foolishness of her youth and how dearly it had cost her. And Mary could not move. Blood frantically rushed to her head as she longed for his handkerchief to steady her now trembling hands which in desperation cleaved to the fabric of her skirt. "My brother Albert and another friend of his found us and unfortunately reported the incident to my father. He refused to believe me when I told him that it had not truly been my choice for I showed no visible signs of a struggle. And even if I had, little would have changed, unfortunately. It is always the woman who bears the consequences of a man's deviant nature, even if she has little or no choice in the matter. So I was sent away from my family to attend the very school at which I later taught and looked after, and he married a young woman from a very prominent family but one year later."

Time ceased to pass for Mary as she sat suspended between two lifetimes, one her present reality and the other so very distant yet ever-present, an ugly specter that always managed to find her no matter how desperately she tried to flee its presence. This could not be happening.

"The most tragic thing is that I blamed myself for many years," Lady Catherine stated, leaning forward until she was sitting face to face with Mary, the older woman's direct yet compassionate gaze so like the manner in which her nephew had looked upon her on the train. "Did you do the same thing, my dear?"

She knew. Mary's head flew up with a shot, her eyes widened in panic, feeling her back soundly against the wall even as she remained in her chair.

"Forgive me, Lady Mary," Lady Catherine soothed, her eyes losing not even an ounce of astuteness as she continued.

"It was not my intention to offend you in any manner."

"Then why do you think that I..." Mary could not even finish, pushing the chair aside as her need to pace shoved her ruthlessly to her feet.

"I have become quite adept at reading people's reactions, my dear," she cut in quietly. "When you teach so many young women over the years, you develop the ability to see what they are afraid to tell you. Unfortunately, there are more of us out there than most people realize."

"Us?" Mary questioned as she walked towards the window, her past continuing to glare mockingly at her even through the radiant blue sky.

"Survivors," Lady Catherine returned. "I refuse to call us victims, even though we were initially." She shifted slightly in her bed as Mary returned her heavy gaze to the woman before her. "Have I read you incorrectly, dear?" The realization that she suddenly had no desire to hide anymore startled Mary, as did the temptation of being able to speak with someone who might actually understand what she had always fought to keep secret. But here in this room she had no cause to fear judgment. So she drew a defining breath.

"No," Mary admitted, her voice barely audible. "You were not incorrect in your conclusions. Not exactly."

"I thought not," Lady Catherine soothed, "and I am truly sorry for it."

So was she.

"It was so very long ago," Mary began softly, speaking words she had never dared to utter and taking small, slow steps back towards the chair, hugging herself reassuringly. "He just showed up in my bedroom one night, you see. I'm still not even sure how he knew which room was mine."

"You asked him to leave?" the older woman questioned, tilting her head slightly as Mary rounded the corner of the bed.

"Three times," she whispered, returning to her seat so that their eyes met directly. "I threatened to scream, but we both knew..."

"That you were ruined already," Lady Catherine finished for her, Mary's eyes squeezing shut as the look of horror upon her mother's face replayed in her memory.

"I thought giving into him would be the easiest course of action, but I had no idea how much it would..." she continued, her words again failing her momentarily. "I had flirted with him so shamelessly that evening...I acted like such a fool."

Foolish indeed. How had she ever overlooked Matthew—Matthew—in favor of that man? And it had cost her so dearly.

"Flirting with a man and inviting him to your bed are two vastly different things, Lady Mary," Lady Catherine replied, taking the younger woman's unsteady hands within her own. "Men like that know exactly what they are doing. They prey upon young women such as you and I, girls who are not taught the ways of the world until it is unfortunately too late."

"I told Mama that he had not forced me when she asked," Mary breathed, still able to feel the pressing weight of him that left her utterly cold.

"Force is not always physical, you know," the older woman responded with conviction, clasping Mary's hand in a show of solidarity and choosing her next words carefully. "You need not burden yourself with unnecessary guilt over this any longer, my dear. It is perfectly fine to let it go."

A dam forged ten years ago suddenly cracked. And pent-up tears flowed unbidden.

* * *

 

The walk home still seemed surreal. Mary had exited Lady Catherine's room in a fog, her mind still replaying so many details from their conversation that attempting to sort them out was simply too overwhelming. Isobel had found her in the front corridor and happily relayed a good report concerning George's ears before returning him to his mother's care. Mary had then informed Isobel of Lady Catherine's whereabouts, procuring a promise from her mother-in-law that she would look after the lady personally throughout the afternoon.

And then Mary and George had left.

She barely noticed the familiar details of the journey to Downton, her thoughts fixed upon a certain night that had left her forever altered. Matthew had never asked her for any further details concerning it other than the ones she had volunteered upon the eve of her confession, somehow knowing she feared such a discussion might taint their relationship. And she could not see the purpose in reliving the incident when he had simply accepted her past, not when they were finally so blissfully happy together. Why should she tempt the very fates that had kept them separated for far too long? So she had swept the incident into the cobwebs of her mind, refusing it admittance into the mainframe of her memory.

But the cobwebs had been freshly swept away this afternoon, nothing now remaining under which to hide. And Matthew was no longer there to shield her.

The question loomed before her: could she let it go, just as Lady Catherine suggested? She longed to desperately, feeling lighter by the second as she envisioned her life without the weighty pangs of guilt to which she had become accustomed. But she had not informed Lady Catherine that Kemal Pamuk had died in the very act of taking her, that she had not only wanted to hastily scrub away the man's uninvited grasp but also the clammy touch of death he had pasted on her skin. Would her reaction to Mary's confession have been different had she known of the man's demise? Mary doubted it, somehow. But Lady Catherine already knew enough about that night. Which meant at some point Mary would have to tell Charles Blake.

Or would she?

Perhaps it would be better just to stop this mad carousel ride with him before she got any dizzier. If she let him know firmly that there could never be anything more than friendship between them, she would not have to explain her past yet again. She could simply concentrate on raising her son and managing Downton until he became of age to take over the reigns as earl. There would be no needless confusion, no guilt over moving on with a life without Matthew...

No fear of having her heart broken again.

Yes—putting an end to this heady infatuation was definitely the safest route to travel, Mary decided, as she and George arrived home. She would simply have to speak with Mr. Blake whenever he arrived this evening. Surely they could be civil concerning this matter. After all, they had only known each other for a matter of days. And what had they actually done? Conversed? Flirted? Enjoyed some lively debate? His aunt was most certainly exaggerating when she spoke of his feelings for her, for there was no possibility that he had already become...

Besotted with her.

Mary felt a moment's pause at her course of action, a disappointment she was not ready to acknowledge threatening her resolve to put this matter to rest. But Charles Blake was moving in too close, scaling her walls at such a rate that she could nearly sense his breath on her neck. And Mary had to escape it all before it engulfed her. So she awaited his arrival, calmly playing with George, dressing for dinner, rehearsing exactly what she would say to him in her mind as she stood before her vanity. She thought through scenario after scenario. Where should it be done? Before or after dinner? How exactly would she get him alone so they could converse with no one else in attendance? And just how would he react? Voices floating up from downstairs rushed into her consciousness, jolting her into action as she heard Mr. Barrow greet Mr. Blake at the door. This was it, she reiterated firmly, reminding herself that she had faced many a more difficult situation than this in her life. A clean break while this entire relationship was in its infancy would do them both good, she mused, for he deserved a whole woman, not one still in the process of piecing her life back together from the ruins.

He might even grow to resent her in the long run, tiring of having to share her affections with the man who had held them absolutely her entire adult life. Yes, this was for the best, she convinced herself as she made her way quietly down the hallway, ignoring the frenetic pounding in her chest that magnified with every step she took. She halted a mere breath from the top of the steps, steeling her resolve as she began her descent to do what she knew needed to be done. She saw him when her feet first grazed the landing, his voice unknowingly beckoning her to step closer as she noted with a small measure of alarm that he bore two gifts in his arms. He spotted her when she had made it but half-way down the staircase, his gaze rushing up the steps to warmly embrace her, his expression at her appearance sweeping away all reason as his smile tenderly stroked her face.

Her resolve crumbled at his feet. And she was utterly helpless to do anything about it save smile back at him in return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: The entire Pamuk incident was never resolved properly for Mary, in my opinion, but rather swept into the recesses of her mind as I stated in this chapter. Matthew's absolute acceptance of her despite what happened would assist her in pushing it from her daily life, and his love for her would make it a wound she could easily ignore. But his death leaves her much more vulnerable in so many ways-so exposed to the ghosts of her past, if you will-that I believe it would be most healthy for her to deal with it once and for all rather than allow it to continually haunt the recesses of her mind.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banter, bats, and baby-steps abound!

What exactly had she planned to say to him tonight?

Mary's carefully formulated speech had vanished, slipping from her grasp irrationally the moment she saw the man staring at her with such expectation. She was stricken by the openness in his expression, and standing within the shelter of his gaze, she felt...she felt...

Dear God...she felt. And that spark nudged her onward, down the remaining steps, her eyes never breaking contact with his lest she lose her way. She determinedly cast off weighted guilt layer by layer as she moved in his direction until she stood before him, stripped of several burdensome constraints she had corseted to herself over half a lifetime. And the sense of newly awakened liberation it afforded made her tremble.

"Lady Mary," Charles breathed sincerely, his voice infusing her with a warmth reminiscent of a fine cognac traipsing languidly throughout her body. "You look beautiful this evening."

Guilt quickly pinched her insides as she remembered the speech she had been rehearsing in her mind while dressing for the evening. Words formulated to send him away—to put an end to this flirtation. Words she was now quite certain she could not piece together in any type of coherency as brown eyes held her a willing hostage where she stood. Her breath halted in her throat as he reverently grasped her ungloved hand, anticipation coiling within her fiercely as he raised it slowly in the direction of his mouth.

Then his lips made contact.

A rather alarming boldness welled up and spilled over as sparks shot through a body already raw from exposure to pent-up emotion. She was utterly intoxicated.

"Thank you, Mr. Blake," she returned as smoothly as she was able, returning his gaze with a muted ferocity of her own, "but I do hope that my appearance hasn't been offensive to you up until this point."

The daring tone in her eyes was not lost upon him, the hint of something new emerging within her drawing him in closer as a moth approaching a newly lit flame. One he most decidedly did not want to extinguish. His hand enclosed hers in delicate firmness, coaxing her to remain still even as he stepped forward. Bound hands were effectively entrapped between them, his words spoken in hushed tones for her hearing alone.

"My lady, your appearance has never been anything but absolute perfection." He leaned into her, his dimple nearly grazing her ear as he whispered, "Even at 3:30 in the morning, if you will permit me to say so."

She was certain champagne had been unleashed in her veins.

"How very sly of you to seek permission after you have already addressed me in so roguish a manner," she returned, leaning back just enough so that she could stare at him directly. "And just what would you do if I should decide to deny you that right?"

"Oh, dear," Charles stated, feigning a look of consternation as he admitted, "I am afraid I did not account for that possibility. I suppose the most prudent move would be to withdraw and formulate a better strategy."

"You surprise me, Mr. Blake," Mary returned, her expression issuing him a challenge. "I would have never taken you for someone who would withdraw quite so hastily."

"I would never want to disappoint you in such a fashion, Lady Mary," he breathed, his eyes darkening in a rather alarming manner.

"Then see that you don't, Mr. Blake," she quietly fired back, querying her brow at him in a rather arched tone. "It would be such a shame for things to end so quickly, and just when you were finally getting on my good side."

"Is your bad side truly that horrible?" he dared, her eyes flashing in response to the boldness in his. "I may just find it rather intriguing." The crackle in her gaze gave him pause as he pushed forward and asked, "Why are you looking at me in such a manner, may I ask?"

"I am currently deciding if you are truly that fool-hardy or simply that arrogant," she crooned, stretching his smile even broader.

"Would you accept fixedly determined?" he dared, not missing the slight hitch in her breath at his inquiry.

"Not from someone whose best strategy was withdrawing after his first move was thwarted just moments ago," Mary returned, steadying her expression to give nothing away.

"If I had completely withdrawn, then I could certainly understand your frustration," he spoke, drawing her interest as she tilted her head slightly towards him. "But I am rather firmly attached to the task at hand and have merely changed positions, my lady."

"And just what maneuver have you concocted?" she daringly queried, the set of her lips informing him that her expectations were high. "It had better be quite good indeed to atone for the liberty you have already taken."

"It is quite effective, I must say," he said, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he added, "but not necessarily all that original."

"And it is?" Mary pressed forward, unwilling to let him dominate this conversational tango.

"Shamelessly distracting you until I have devised a superior plan of action," he admitted, bowing his head slightly in deference to her judgment upon his confession.

"That is funny," Mary grinned. "For I thought all this time that I was shamelessly distracting you."

Dear God—that grin again!

"And just what ingenious methods have you been employing to draw my attention to you so fixedly?" he asked, his eyes softly demanding an answer.

"Why should I give away all of my secrets this early in the game?" Mary inquired, her gaze pinning him squarely. "After all, would that not give you a rather large advantage?"

"Although pressing an advantage with you might be sorely tempting, my lady, the upper hand in all of dealings should always belong to you," Charles voiced sincerely.

It was at this moment she became acutely aware that he had not yet released her hand. Her eyes flickered to the point where their bodies remained interlocked, her senses responding all too quickly to the intimacy as his thumb grazed her knuckles.

"Speaking of hands, do you ever intend to release mine?" she hesitated, a portion of her needing a modicum of space to draw breath while the other basked in the contact.

"Would you like me to do so?' he inquired, his thumb claiming a soft fold of flesh nestled hidden between two knuckles. Her throat went instantly dry as every drop of blood raced to the spot held blissfully captive.

"It would most definitely be the prudent course of action," Mary replied, "We could be discovered here at any moment."

"I did not ask what was prudent, but what you desired," Charles stated, her eyes casting down in response as a wave of uncertainly swelled beneath her.

"That may depend upon your motives, Mr. Blake," she breathed deeply. "Do you hold my hand as a continuation of your plan to distract me, or do you have an alternative agenda which you are keeping concealed?"

"A worthy question, indeed," Charles admitted, his thumb stroking that spot just enough to drive her quietly mad. "Of course, I cannot answer it, I am sorry to say."

"How can you refuse me when you have promised my grandmother so very faithfully that you are at my disposal?" she dared, leaning back a mere breath in challenge.

"It is a matter of strategy, my lady," he explained, maintaining the distance she placed between them. "If I admit to prolonging a ploy of distraction, then I have once again conceded defeat and given away my methodology. However, if I do have a hidden agenda at work, then revealing it to you would put me at an even greater disadvantage that the one I already face. You must see my dilemma."

"Hmmm," she murmured, narrowing her eyes slightly. "I am not at all certain that you are facing any disadvantage at all, sir, but rather claiming to do so in an ill-gotten attempt to have me take pity upon you."

"Nonetheless, Lady Mary, I am still holding your hand," he returned, grinning broadly at the burst of fire his comment drew from the depths of her orbs.

"And you are a cad, Mr. Blake," Mary insisted, "I find that I have now quite forgotten why I issued you the invitation to stay here tonight in the first place."

The stare was hypnotic, the breath that caressed her knuckles as he dared yet another kiss upon them before releasing her hand from his keeping a probing reminder that her senses were fully charged in his favor.

"Perhaps a peace offering?" he attempted, putting the two gifts before her as she gave him a sideways smile.

"Resorting to bribery, now are we?" she prodded, shaking her head slightly in mock consternation. "How far we have fallen, Mr. Blake."

"Ah, but the length of the fall depends completely upon the height of the tower one is attempting to climb. Would you not agree, Lady Mary?"

The rake.

"Perhaps it is more dependent upon the use of shoddy equipment. One must prepare for the unexpected when scaling a tower," she mused with a beguiling smirk.

"I can assure you, my lady, my equipment is in fine form," he returned without a flinch.

She felt the blush that bled across her skin acutely as she returned, "I am glad to hear it, Mr. Blake."

She could hardly breathe, feeling the effects of him overtake her like the most delicious poison, drugging her sense of both time and reality in the most tantalizing manner. This could get a bit dangerous.

"Now, will you accept my gifts, or will I have to resort to Plan C?" he inquired, flashing her an expression that rather illogically reminded her of the stray puppy residing in the back yard.

"And just what is Plan C?" she queried.

"To get down and beg," he replied, dropping his head in feigned resignation as she laughed audibly.

"I think I would rather like to see that, actually," Mary smiled, halting her laughter as quickly as possible so as not to draw anyone's unwanted attention to their private discourse.

"Why does that not surprise me?" Charles retorted, attempting to place both gifts in her hands as he prepared to kneel down.

"Not here, you silly man!" she hissed, looking around hastily to make sure that no one was observing their exchange as another giggle burst forth from her unbidden.

He returned to an upright stance, running his fingers through his hair as he inquired, "So I assume that you have another time and location in mind, my lady?"

"Another time and location in mind for what, exactly?" a voice cut through, a wave of smothering mortification crawling up her limbs as Mary turned to face her brother-in-law.

"To open these thoughtful gifts that Mr. Blake has brought," she returned smoothly, sliding into her performance persona with an ease that Tom recognized all too well.

"Well, that was very thoughtful of you, Mr. Blake," Tom returned, the glint in his eyes not matching his words as he stared down the other man quite effectively.

"It was the least I could do, Mr. Branson," Charles replied calmly, taking Tom's protectiveness in dignified stride. "I did wonder, Lady Mary, when would be an appropriate time to deliver that particular gift to Master George? I do hope he is feeling better now."

"He is doing much better, thank you," Mary replied, delighted by this change in tactic, "and right now would be a good time, actually. My mother is with him at the moment, although I must warn you that he and Sybbie will be dining with us this evening."

"Are you still minus a nanny, then?" he asked, following her as she began to make her way back up the stairs.

"Our new nanny starts tomorrow," Tom interjected, still standing on the ground floor as his incredulous gaze searched Mary's rather stubborn one.

"Temporary nanny, that is," Mary clarified, smiling at Charles as her eyes flashed Tom a look of warning. "Come, Mr. Blake. George will be delighted to see you again."

"Mr. Branson," Charles acknowledged, turning to face the other man directly. "We shall return in short order, I assure you."

"See that you do," Tom stated firmly, earning him a decided eye-roll from his sister-in-law. She sighed audibly over this primal protective streak asserting itself rather loudly at such an inopportune moment. After all, it was not as though Tom Branson had been appointed as her keeper. But Mary did understand the deep origins of his feelings, realizing that it must be nearly as difficult for Tom to witness her flirting with a another man as it would be for her to see him become serious about a woman besides her sister. She did want Tom to love again and be happy, but watching him walk through the entire process could have its uncomfortable moments for her and the rest of her family. A renewed realization that she was flirting—seriously flirting—with a man who was not Matthew slammed into her, shoving her dangerously near a precipice self-doubt that loomed cavernously before her. Simultaneously, Mary understood that by inviting Charles back into her son's nursery, she was effectively giving him permission to take a step into her life...

Consenting to a dance.

The thought gave her pause as she halted upon the stairs and looked back at him searchingly. Was she ready for this? Dare she take the risk?

"I can wait until later, Lady Mary, if you are having second thoughts over the matter," Charles assured her, ceasing his own progress on the staircase as he allowed her space to think.

She stood suspended, stretched across the bridge spanning the gulf between a priceless past and the possibility of a living, breathing and enticing present looking up at her in search of permission to move forward. There was no longer any doubt of the measured attraction between them—a growing, pulsing entity that kept urging her towards strong arms she knew would be open to her, into an embrace that promised to both cover her wounds and unleash her senses. Yet Mary knew without a doubt that Charles Blake would step back if she asked it of him.

"No," she decided, his small smile of response tugging insistently at the corners of her own lips. "This truly is the perfect time, Mr. Blake."

"Then I am at your disposal, Lady Mary," he replied, transforming her reluctant grin into a vulnerable smile that nearly shattered him. He closed the gap between them with determined caution, fully aware of just how much these steps forward were costing her. With trembling hands, she accepted his offered arm, startled by her own daring even as she welcomed his encompassing sense of shelter. "Shall we, my lady?" he inquired gently, smiling as she nervously cast her eyes down to the floor momentarily before giving him a small nod in assent. They then slowly walked up the remaining stairs together.

* * *

Mary groaned inwardly at the beaming smile her mother gave Charles Blake when they entered the nursery, noting the speed with which Cora's eyes took in the gifts, guarded expressions and their close proximity to each other. No matter how fervently Mary might later protest, her mother had already examined the evidence before her and formed her own conclusions within a matter of seconds. It was probably just better to deal with the entire situation directly and put it to rest rather than have her mother's questions hovering about them insistently for the rest of the night.

"Mr. Blake," Cora began, standing from her position in the rocking chair as George continued to play with his wooden duck. "I am delighted that you were able to join us this evening, although I was sorry to learn of your aunt's illness."

Mary's eyes flew open as the vastness of her oversight pounded in her ears. She had been so blindsided by his very presence that she had neglected to inquire after Lady Catherine. How vastly selfish of her.

"Lady Grantham, I must thank you for both your kind hospitality and your concern over my aunt's condition," Charles replied, noting the look of discomfort on Mary's face and quickly deducing its source. "I am happy to report that Dr. Clarkson believes she has decidedly improved and will be able to leave the hospital tomorrow."

"Are you certain that she is strong enough?" Mary voiced, remembering just how fragile the lady had seemed during their conversation earlier in the day, a conversation upon which she did not want to dwell at the moment. "I would hate for her to suffer a set-back."

"Unfortunately, she will never be completely rid of her heart condition," Charles answered honestly, "but her difficulties do come and go, so to speak. Dr. Clarkson assured me that as long as she gets adequate rest, she will progress just as well at home as she would in the hospital. I do need to see about hiring a private nurse to tend to her, however."

Mary noted the small flicker of pain that flashed across her mother's face, knowing how desperately she wished that Sybil could have been on hand to offer her assistance. But the note of sadness vanished quickly as Lady Grantham recovered her wits and faced the pair with aplomb.

"We already have a room prepared for Lady Catherine," she offered, drawing her eyes together in thought, "and Mrs. Crawley is currently staying with us while repairs are being made upon her house. I shall ask her if she would mind tending to your aunt until a suitable nurse can be found. Would you be comfortable in allowing her to recuperate here at Downton over the next few days?"

"I feel as though I have imposed enough upon your hospitality," he began, his gaze moving from mother to daughter as he stated, "I would not want to overstay my welcome."

"Nonsense, Mr. Blake," Mary responded, steadying her voice even as her words had their desired impact. "Have I not already informed you that you are welcome here?"

"You have indeed, Lady Mary," he replied, giving her a slight nod as he concluded, "I just want to assure you that I shall not take it for granted."

The hint of her smile targeted him with precision, his conceding grin urging her to take aim yet again. And not a breath of this silent exchange was overlooked by Cora.

"Well, in that case, I shall leave Georgie in your capable hands and make sure that everything is in place for dinner," Lady Grantham smiled, casting her daughter a private look of excitement as she moved past her towards the door. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Blake."

"Of course, Lady Grantham," he bowed as she made her exit from the nursery with blatant haste.

"Please forgive me for failing to inquire about your aunt when you arrived," Mary began once they were alone with George, shaking her head slightly in consternation as she continued, "I am so very sorry."

"Lady Mary, I have already admitted to the fact that I was shamelessly attempting to distract you down there, so please allow the blame to fall squarely upon my shoulders," Charles returned, ensuring that her eyes were fully upon his as he added, "Yours have had to bear much more than their fair share lately. Let's give them a rest, shall we?"

"Only if you tell me the truth," Mary agreed, her eyes narrowing as she sought his assurance. "Will she ever truly recover from this?"

The look of utter defeat cast upon his face answered her question immediately, a cold pit forming in her stomach as he stated, "I am afraid not. The doctor in London told me she would live no longer than six months, but Dr. Clarkson seems to think that she might hold on for another year or two." He ran his fingers through his hair again, shaking his head as he admitted, "I just don't want to see her suffer. She raised me, you know. In every way that truly counts, she is my mother."

"Yes, I know," Mary replied softly, daring to take his hand within hers in a gesture of sympathy that took him by surprise.

"Without her, I have no idea where I might be today," he admitted, squeezing her hand slightly, the pain in his eyes touching her with the softness of delicate fingers. "I owe her so very much."

"I doubt very much that she looks upon it in such a manner," Mary offered, unaccustomed to seeing him in such a vulnerable state. "She thinks of you as her son, and mothers do not keep a tally of debts owed to them by their children, I assure you."

As if on cue, George knocked over his stack of blocks gleefully with his duck, erupting into a round of applause for himself as he squealed in delight.

"Hello there, George," Charles smiled, turning his attention to the boy who grinned up at him in recognition. "I am sorry to have so shamefully neglected you." He immediately sat down on the floor with the child, beginning to rebuild the doomed structure of blocks much to George's delight as Mary watched in silence, an insistent tugging upon her heart filling her with equal measures of sadness and measured hope. This was all still so surreal. "I have something for you," Charles continued, extending the gift towards George and laughing at the boy's response as he clasped it within his dimpled hands and attempted to chew on its corners.

"No, George," Mary corrected, kneeling down upon the play rug and prying the present from her son's mouth. "Here, let me help you."

Charles watched in silent amusement as she cautiously attempted to cut a clean seam in the wrapping with her fingernail, George's impatience growing with each moment the present was out of his eager grasp.

"May I?" he asked, holding out his hand in the direction of the gift as she looked up at him from underneath her lashes.

"I suppose," she replied, laying the package in his large hands and watching in horror as he tore a large gash in the wrapping. "Here you go, George," Charles smiled, handing the parcel back to the delighted child as he mimicked the action he had just witnessed and began ripping into the paper in abandon.

"Was that really necessary, Mr. Blake?" Mary questioned, giving him that quirked glance that he had already come to cherish.

"Absolutely," he enthused, a gleam returning to his eyes as he assisted George with the remainder of his task. "Unwrapping the package is half the fun, my lady." He received a decidedly more marked glare in return.

"Book! Book!" George babbled, holding this new treasure as well as he was able as Mary leaned forward to help him, staring at the cover as spontaneous grin crept across her face.

" _The Teddy Bearoplane_ ," she read aloud, touching the picture of a smiling teddy bear riding in the described aircraft as it flew over the countryside, making George point to the plane and state, "Bye-bye!"

"When I saw it in the bookstore, I could simply not resist," Charles admitted, looking up at her with an expression that made him rather resemble a little boy, as well. "I know just how much he adores that bear of his."

"It's perfect. Thank you," Mary replied, his thoughtfulness resonating fully within her. "I shall have to read it to him later tonight."

"Would you allow me to do so?" he inquired, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself as her eyes widened in surprise. "Or do I ask too much?"

"No," she whispered, casting her eyes back down to the book as she clarified, "It is not too much. I am sure that he would love that, actually."

Matthew's marked absence assailed her anew, pushing her to her feet as she wordlessly strolled to the window in a futile attempt to dull the ache pulsing deep within. He should be here—here—in this nursery with her...with them. George was his son, for God's sake! But he wasn't here. And there was nothing she could do to change that fact. Charles stood and moved quietly in her direction, his nearness felt keenly by her even as he refused to invade the space she had created between them.

"I apologize, Lady Mary, I should not have presumed-"

"No," she interrupted, turning back to face him as she took a halting step closer, clasping her arms around herself as she rubbed them for warmth. "You did nothing wrong, Mr. Blake. It's just that sometimes..." Stray tears cut her off, spilling on to her cheeks as she struggled desperately to curtail their progress. She finally hung her head in resignation, covering her mouth with her hand as she simply let them fall.

"I know," he assured her, his hands gently encircling her arms as she gazed up at him, allowing him to see the ongoing struggle taking place within her soul. He did know, and there was no need for her to try to explain what was so difficult to put into words. He pulled her cautiously closer until his arms embraced her fully, her cheek coming to rest near his shoulder as his hands covered her back. And she let him hold her, releasing her hurt into him as she pressed even closer, siphoning as much comfort from his touch as she could possibly take in.

A shriek from George broke them apart sharply as they both turned immediately in his direction, Mary's jaw opening in surprise as she saw the child standing upright and attempting a hesitant step in her direction.

His first steps!

She dropped to her knees, smiling widely as she encouraged him through her tears, holding her arms out to him as she beckoned him forward. He was grinning broadly, sensing innately that he was accomplishing a feat vastly greater than his young mind could yet fathom. He faltered once, nearly falling as he caught himself with his hands and pushed his still top-heavy body back upright. The expression of utter determination on his little face made Mary laugh as he staggered once, twice, and finally toppled deliriously into her arms. She wept at the sheer beauty of it.

"I am so proud of you!" Mary exclaimed, hugging her son tightly to her chest as he giggled. "Did you see what he did?"

"I did, indeed," Charles responded, a huge grin breaking across his face as he reclaimed his seat on the floor. "What a clever boy you are, George!" he beamed, earning himself a most endearing slobbery smile in return.

The lad immediately began to express his intentions of trying to recreate what he had just done, pushing himself from Mary's chest even as he fell onto his bottom in response.

"He knows that he can stand on his own," Charles surmised, his hands motioning the lad in his direction as George pushed himself up and happily complied. "There will be no stopping him now."

Mary watched in breathless fascination as her child teetered away from her, nearly running towards the man whose arms promised to catch him if he stumbled. He was blossoming before her very eyes, gaining strength and momentum as he pressed ever forward, refusing to look backwards lest he lose his footing and miss his destination entirely. And although the pain of loss still dwelled within her chambers, she quietly determined that if George could do it, then so could she.

* * *

 

Tom had been rather sullen at dinner, but he had kept any pointed opinions or remarks concerning Charles Blake thankfully to himself. Mary suspected that her mother was directly responsible for his silence on the matter, noting quick, pointed glances cast his way from Cora's place at the table. George and Sybbie's presence kept things lively enough, Lord Grantham bearing up quite admirably under the slight strain of having children at the table. But Mary decidedly missed Carson's presence, for neither Mr. Molesely nor Mr. Barrow would take the time to dote on the children in the same fashion as their favorite butler.

Everyone was delighted by hearing of George's progress in walking, Cora regretting the fact that she had left the nursery just minutes before the magical moment arrived. Mary assured her that George would be more than delighted to show off his newly discovered skills after dinner, musing to herself that Nanny Thompson's job would now most certainly be more challenging. She also knew that Isobel would be panting to see this latest development when she returned from her dinner with Dr. Clarkson. She could only imagine the look on her face upon witnessing the first steps of her grandson. And she couldn't help but wonder at what the woman's response would truly be to Mary's budding new relationship with Charles Blake.

How odd it felt to think of it in such a manner, and actually labeling it as such made her more than slightly nervous. Yet there it stood, no matter what she chose to deem it, and to deny its existence would be nothing short of ludicrous. Isobel had assured her just days ago that she wanted Mary to move on, to love again and move forward with her life. Yet just as she had witnessed with Tom, Mary could not help but wonder if the reality of such a possibility would be more difficult for her mother-in-law to accept than simply the abstract idea of it.

How very ironic that the opposite was proving true for Mary. The next few days were promising to become more and more interesting, indeed.

The lights flickered unceremoniously at one point, going out all together for a matter of seconds, but just enough to scare Sybbie and make her call out for her father. Tom took her up in his arms immediately, stroking her dark curls as he whispered away her fears. Mary looked to George who seemed to find the entire situation rather exciting as he stared wide-eyed back at her, pointing up to the lights that had suddenly ceased to work properly. But when she moved her gaze to Charles Blake, her heart stopped momentarily.

He was watching Tom console his daughter. And his face was utterly broken.

Charles then took a deep breath and returned his attention to Mary, giving her a small grin and a secret wink he intended to go unnoticed by anyone else in the darkness. But she had seen the roots of something buried deep within him, a pain she recognized and translated rather quickly into a fact of which now she was certain. She knew that Charles Blake had lost both his wife and baby in childbirth. But Mary was now convinced that his child had been a daughter.

She could not pull her gaze from him, wondering just how he had dealt with not just one but two such staggering gashes to the fabric of his life. Were there still hidden places in his soul where none were allowed to venture, where the pain was still too acute to approach? Was he perhaps seeking for someone who could help him find his way, as well, one who could help him shoulder the hurt life had dealt him as a matter of cruel chance? She had quickly come to perceive him as such a strong and comforting force, an unexpected shelter that had rather magically appeared in her life. Yet he must have his weak points as well, crevices where hurt still lay hidden from most but lingered ever-present just the same.

Was it possible that she indeed offered him the same measure of comfort that he had freely bestowed upon her up in the nursery? The very thought seemed impossible to her in her fragmented state, but there it stood all the same. The lights flashed on once again much to everyone's relief, forcing Mary to break her concentrated focus upon him and return her attention to the conversation at hand.

"As you can see, Mr. Blake, we have been experiencing some rather unfortunate difficulties with the electricity ever since the storm came through two days ago," Robert explained before placing the next course upon his plate. "I am sorry to inform you that these problems may continue over the next few days. I hope you do not find it too inconvenient for your comfort."

Charles simply shook his head before responding, "Lord Grantham, I have lived most of my adult life in India. The reliability of electricity here at Downton, even in its damaged state, is far greater than that to which I became accustomed, I assure you."

"Nonetheless, I apologize for any inconvenience our problems may cause you," Robert continued. "We have had rather an unexpected string of bad luck here recently."

"I was so very sorry to hear of Mr. Carson's injury," Charles stated as he set down his wine glass. "I was rather impressed by his efficiency and persona during my last visit."

"There is no one like Carson," Mary stated in agreement, "I practically had to force the man to remain in bed to recover. He wanted to oversee the house party with a wrist the size of a cricket ball."

"I am glad you convinced him to take care of himself, but I daresay the man would have still managed admirably, even in an injured state," Charles returned, seeking Mary's reaction to his assumption.

"Take care that he doesn't hear you say that," she put in, looking up at him from her plate, "or he will insist on returning to full duty even with a sling on his arm."

"Mary, have you instructed Mr. Blake that he must keep an eye out for the bat?" Cora asked, noting the rather astonished expression on Charles's face that answered her question immediately.

"What's this about bats?" he inquired, turning to Mary as she rolled her eyes in exasperation over the entire situation.

"It would seem that a bat managed to sneak into the house through a broken window," Mary explained, shaking her head slightly at the utter ridiculousness of the situation. "Unfortunately, no one has been able to locate or apprehend it yet."

"I do hope you will still be able to sleep soundly, Mr. Blake," Cora stated, a shiver running up her spine at the mere thought of the mammal.

"Lady Grantham, I assure you that any bat flying about Downton cannot compare to some of the species I became acquainted with in India," Charles replied, George beginning to repeat the word "bat" in excitement as he clapped his hands.

"Do you like bats, then, George?" Charles grinned, watching the boy in delight as an expression of revulsion passed across his mother's countenance.

"No, he does not," Mary replied firmly in his stead.

"Bats that here are the size of mice are actually the size of cats near my father's estate," Charles continued, illustrating the size difference with his hands for the children's amusement and making Cora's fork pause mid-way to her mouth.

"Well, that would be something to see, indeed," Robert said with interest, earning himself a rather incredulous look from his wife.

"As long as they're not the size of dogs," Mary put in, casting Tom a look that made him hang his head slightly. "A run-away puppy caused a great many problems yesterday, as well," Mary explained to Charles's silent inquiry, stifling the ridiculous urge to laugh audibly at the utter absurdity of it all.

"I see doggie?" Sybbie asked, a bright smile lighting up her features that made Tom just shake his head.

"Sybbie has unfortunately become rather attached to the rascal," Mary explained. "She's given the little beast a name, and that is most certainly a bad sign."

"And just what is so horrible about child and a dog getting on well together?" Charles asked, earning himself a rather pointed looks from both Mary and Cora.

"My thoughts, exactly," Robert chimed in, setting his water glass back on the table as he addressed the entire gathering. "As none of the tenants have claimed the pup, I can see no harm in allowing him to stay here at Downton. The children already enjoy him, and he is a rather fine breed."

His statement was met with utter silence as the lights flickered precariously once more, causing Sybbie to cry out again for her father and George to squeal and clap his hands in unbridled glee.

"And you said you didn't believe in curses," Mary murmured quietly under her breath for Charles's ears alone as the others took up the discussion of the dog.

"I don't," Charles restated teasingly, "but I may have to reconsider my views on voodoo with all of the strange goings on here at Downton."

"If I find a doll in your possession that even remotely resembles me, you're in for it," she bit back playfully, making him laugh in earnest as quietly as he could.

"Promises, promises, Lady Mary..." he whispered behind his napkin, giving her a look that she could not misread. And the resulting flame that sparked in her eyes assured him that he was in for it, indeed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Mary share past secrets and forge a new understanding.

Mary and Cora had taken George back to the nursery to ready the child for bed while the men retired for drinks after dinner. Mary was vastly thankful that her mother seemed reluctant to engage her in conversation concerning her newfound standing with Charles Blake, wondering if she feared that any outside interference would push her daughter firmly in the opposite direction. Heaven knew that there was certainly history enough to support such a hypothesis.

George had most willingly performed his walking feat for his grandmother, and Mary could not decipher just who was more thrilled with his accomplishment as Cora swept him up into her arms and planted one large kiss upon his giggling face.

"Oh, Mary!" was the singular response that her mother seemed able to formulate, yet it was more than sufficient. This night was proving to be a milestone for them all in many ways. Cora moved intentionally to the small table in the corner, examining the new book lying there before looking expectantly towards her daughter.

"A gift from Mr. Blake," Mary answered evenly, noting her mother's smile of immense satisfaction.

"How very thoughtful of him," Cora stated, directing her attention back to her grandson as he pushed himself upright yet again. "It would be nice to allow him to read it to George himself, don't you agree?"

"Why not?" Mary responded, sighing inwardly at the flash of excitement her answer inspired. "I suppose it could do no harm."

"I understand that Mr. Blake arrived with two packages this evening," Cora continued, leaving the remainder of her sentence open for her daughter to fill in.

"He did," Mary admitted as she helped George regain his balance. "The other has yet to be opened."

"Oh," Cora responded, her face drawing together in contemplation. "I wonder what it could be?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea as he has not yet allowed me to open it," Mary answered directly, giving her mother the satisfaction of at least knowing for certain that she was the intended recipient. "Perhaps he is saving it for tomorrow."

"Or perhaps he is waiting until no one else is around tonight," Cora returned, Mary taken slightly aback by the overt suggestion in her mother's smile. Her own penetrating gaze was met head-on by Cora's teasing one, the contest of wills left undecided as Lady Grantham put in, "I shall return downstairs and inform him that George is now ready for bed." She then made her exit before Mary could utter a word in response.

A veritable cocktail of nerves began stirring within as Mary gathered her son up into her arms and walked the circumference of the nursery. She was allowing Charles Blake to read a bed-time story to her son, a sacred ritual that had been performed by her the entirety of his young life. She had no doubts that George would enjoy the experience or that Mr. Blake would be quite adept at making the story both interesting and soothing for the boy. But he was not Matthew. And Matthew had never been given the opportunity to read to his own son.

Then again, she was certain that Charles Blake had never had the chance to read a story to his little girl, either.

The utter tragedy of their circumstances struck her anew. Before she could immerse herself into this realm of thought any further he arrived, his knock drawing George's attention as the boy pointed eagerly to the door. She opened it slowly, much as she had two nights ago when he had once before summoned her to the nursery entrance. But this time, she was neither confused nor agitated by his presence. And she did not hesitate to allow him in.

"Lady Mary," he began, shifting his stance in a nervous gesture that took her by surprise. "You are by no means obligated to allow me this privilege, you know. If you would prefer that I leave you and George for the moment, I will most certainly understand."

She stood in a momentary silence as so many thoughts and images played through her mind, stacking themselves atop one another in a rather disjointed pyramid. But there he stood, waiting patiently for her response while making no demands of his own. She was oddly reminded of an afternoon eight years ago when Matthew had stared at her in expectation, awaiting an answer she hesitated too long in giving. How that hesitation had cost her. She would not make such a mistake again.

"I appreciate your sensitivity to my situation, Mr. Blake," she began, dark eyes resting upon him as she concluded, "but George has been expecting you. Surely you do not mean to disappoint him."

"No, Lady Mary," he smiled, taking her gaze gently into his grasp as he admitted, "that is the very last thing I would ever wish to do."

Keen awareness hung between them in a charged silence.

"Well then," she cut in, taking a deep breath as she directed him to the rocking chair. "Are you ready for him?"

"Always," Charles answered, taking George into his arms quite comfortably before sitting down and adjusting him on his lap. Mary presented him with the book, her heart squeezing tightly at the look of wondrous expectation hovering upon her son's small face. How very natural they looked together, the pair of them so warm and contentedly snuggled in the comforting confines of the chair. The image pierced her very soul. Later, Mary would wonder just how she had managed to stand upright while Charles had read to George, so many conflicting emotions struggling for dominance within her that the force of them made her dizzy. Hope, regret, fear, expectation, sadness, wonder, uncertainty...they each demanded her attention, pulling her in one direction just as another would clasp on to her in an attempt to lead her elsewhere. She remembered Matthew cradling their son, the unspeakable joy on his face forever seared into her memory so tangibly she could paint it effortlessly if she only possessed the skill. Yet she kept her eyes purposefully open, intently forcing herself to dwell in the present and upon the scene unfolding before her. She could no longer live on the border between the two worlds—it was unhealthy for her, for George.

And it was exceedingly lonely.

Charles's rich voice bound her fast as he read of a teddy bear and his friends setting off on a grand adventure to faraway places. But beneath the written words verbalized to George, an unspoken conversation played out, voiced through silent glances and punctuated by answering expressions.

_"Will you do me the honor a dance, my lady?" brown eyes inquired as they flickered up from the page and found hers unwaveringly._

_"Perhaps...but be aware that I may falter," the honest response of a trembling glance._

_"Then I shall hold on to you tightly," a smile, a dimple promised in unison._

_"And what if it is that possibility that makes me stumble?" lifted brows inquired._

The book was finished, yet they remained immobile, any sense of a world existing beyond the confines of the nursery world quite forgotten as Charles continued to rock the sleepy child until George's eyelids finally drifted shut in slumber. Yet theirs refused to break contact, engaged in a hesitant waltz which neither of them wished to conclude even as the orchestra had ceased to play. The internal melody held her in sway as Mary watched Charles finally rise and transfer the boy successfully to his crib, her heart tightening as she witnessed the look of tenderness so freely bestowed upon her son by this man who truly should be a father. With a fair amount of hesitation, they quietly made their way out of the small room and into the hallway, Charles taking care to gently shut the door behind them before they resumed their wordless path down the stairs. Their feet carried them lightly through space until they arrived downstairs, Mary somehow not surprised to see that everyone else had mysteriously retired for the night.

They had purposefully been left alone.

Her heart began to pound resolutely in response to this fact, her emotions playing host to a fierce battle of tug-of-war between hopeful expectancy and sheer fright. Yet she allowed him to gently guide her to the sitting room, breaking away from her long enough to retrieve the package he had obviously left lying in wait for her return. And she focused upon breathing evenly.

"This is for you, Lady Mary," he spoke, ending the silence even as the dreamlike atmosphere continued encircling the room. His offering lay in his hands, awaiting her acceptance as she considered what receiving it would mean for her...for them.

Dear God—what an unnerving thought. But the idea of refusing him left her rigidly cold, and she had experienced enough coldness to last three lifetimes. She longed for a warmth that would not leave her, an extended summer in which to bask. And he stood before her, offering her a taste of the season if she chose to partake of it with him.

"Forgive me," Charles put in, her prolonged hesitation making him uneasy. "I hope you do not mind my presumptuous action."

"I will mind only if I do not approve of what you bought me," she returned softly, the hint of coyness in her tone making him shake his head smilingly in response.

"Then I pray I chose well," he stated, the measure of relief in his voice endearing him to her anew as he lay the present in her arms.

"Let us hope you did," she replied demurely despite the fact that her insides were alight in anticipation. Mary opened the gift ever so slowly, taking time to carefully preserve the paper as she observed him anxiously awaiting her reaction. The wrapping finally came undone, her gaze fixing upon him from under her lashes as she slid a beautifully bound volume embossed with golden lettering from its confines.

"The Daydream and other works by Alfred Lord Tennyson," she read, the snippet of poetry he had written down for her resounding softly within her mind.

"I thought it could lead to interesting discussion," he breathed, pausing just slightly before uttering that final word as he searched her face for a sign of whether or not his offering had pleased her.

"It could indeed," she agreed, so very, very aware of just how close he stood. "Although I do seem to remember a promise you made concerning quoting me no sonnets during the house party."

"That is very true, my lady," he returned, "However, once again I must remind you that these are not sonnets but dramatic poetry. And you must readily admit that reading and quoting are vastly different entities."

"Must I now?" she questioned, his proximity effortlessly asserting dominance over her reason.

"Oh, yes," he returned, daring even one step closer. "Besides, the house party does not officially begin until tomorrow."

"You are much too clever for your own good, you know," Mary observed, his dimples instantly attesting to the truth of her assertion.

"You have no idea just how often I have heard that very statement from my aunt," he laughed, drawing out a smile from her in response.

She gazed at the book he had given her, gliding her fingers over the cover as she voiced, "This is lovely, Mr. Blake. However, there was no need for you to feel obligated to bring me a gift."

"Obligation was the furthest thing from my mind, I assure you," he admitted, her pulse plunging dangerously ahead into uncharted waters. "Lady Mary, it has been an exceedingly long time since I have attempted to court a woman. You must promise to take pity upon me and let me know immediately if I am doing it poorly."

Poorly? She nearly laughed at the absurdity of his fears even as his honest assertion gave her a moment's pause.

"I am afraid that I must inform you that I may not be the most reliable judge in that matter, Mr. Blake, for I have actually never been properly courted," she volunteered, smiling softly at the rather stunned look upon his face at her assertion. "However, I can assure you that I currently find no fault in your methods."

A small sigh of relief escaped him at her assurance even as he questioned her statement.

"I find it extremely difficult to believe that you never received a proper courtship," Charles pondered, running his fingers through his hair in disbelief. "Even from your husband?"

She then knew it was time. Mary turned wordlessly, her measured steps leading him away from the mantelpiece and to a small sofa where she motioned for him to sit with her. He sensed even as he took his place that she was granting him a glance into the windows of her past, knowing with certainty that the time had arrived to throw open the drapes covering his own life for her inspection.

And he honestly had no idea what her reaction would be.

"Matthew and I never quite followed a traditional path, I'm afraid," she began. "He came to Downton as the new heir poised to claim an inheritance I believed to be rightfully mine. To say I resented him at first would have been an understatement."

"I see he changed your mind," he ventured, pausing as a look of remembrance overtook her.

"I was truly dreadful to him at first," Mary admitted. "It is a miracle that he didn't write me off from the beginning." She then turned her gaze back to him and added, "I did tell you about my bad side."

"It must be fearsome, indeed," he grinned, earning him a pointed stare that only broadened it.

"I'm afraid it actually is," she continued, shaking her head slightly. "Consider yourself warned."

"Alright, then," he acquiesced, looking at her inquiringly as he ventured, "but your husband did not seem to mind it."

"He did at first, believe me," Mary sighed, her hands idly toying with her skirt as she collected her thoughts. "But we eventually learned that we got on very well together. He proposed to me early on, but then so much went wrong, you see, and he withdrew his offer."

"He did what?" Charles asked, more than slightly incredulous over the thought that anyone—even her beloved late husband—would ever treat her in such a manner.

"Please, you must understand," she pleaded quietly, unwilling to allow him to think negatively of Matthew for even a moment. "The fault rested with me. I delayed too long in giving him an answer, and he believed my hesitation had to do with the state of his prospects."

"But it didn't?" he gently questioned, leading her guilelessly towards the very ledge she had so desperately feared allowing him to glimpse just hours ago.

"No, not really," Mary sighed, sealing her eyes away from her immediate surroundings as she prepared herself to do this again. "It had to do with something I was afraid of telling him—something from my past."

He studied her wordlessly, observing the quickening flutter of her lashes, the more pronounced swallow hitching in her throat and the slight movement of her hands that all signaled her unease. She was attempting to bolster up her courage to share this same detail with him, he deduced, and the realization that an event from so long ago still affected her this much made him ache for her even more deeply.

"Is this what you spoke of in the car?" he asked gently, leaning slightly forward in an attempt to ease her discomfort. "When he told you that you had done nothing he need forgive?"

Her gaze found his immediately, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she replied, "You have a very good memory, Mr. Blake."

"I do try to remember what's important, Lady Mary," he returned, noticing that her hands had stilled somewhat and now rested upon her lap.

"But aren't there times when you would give anything to forget?" she questioned unexpectedly, her own openness a bit of a shock to her as she sought his face for an answer.

"Oh, yes," he breathed, shaking his head slightly. "There are times when a keen memory can be a curse, indeed." Her raised brow at his choice of words made him grin. "Perhaps burden would be a preferable term," he recanted, relishing the small but genuine smile he was granted in return.

"Burden would be an all too appropriate term," Mary said, searching his eyes to test the safety of the water into which she was preparing to plunge. "I become so weary of it at times."

"And what is this burden that you have carried for so long, Lady Mary?" he asked, his hushed voice barely audible over the pronounced throbbing of her pulse. "I shall listen if you wish to tell me."

She breathed heavily, determining the likelihood of his casting judgment upon her when his aunt had experienced something so very similar. But no matter his response, it needed to be done. She had to be certain of his reaction before allowing him to step in any further.

"I actually spoke with your aunt about this very thing earlier," she ventured forward, gathering her thoughts and emotions about her as orderly as possible.

"Aunt Catherine is quite a good listener," Charles injected into her brief silence. "She has a way of drawing things out of people, usually without even having to ask them."

"It must be a family trait," Mary mused, her eyes flicking up to his briefly before they rested upon her lap. "I spoke of things with her I have never discussed with anyone."

His astute gaze intensified as his mind drew a tenuous connection.

"And what did she tell you?" Charles inquired, a stealthy fear of what she had experienced crawling up his spine as he deduced the type of confession she would have freely offered his aunt. Mary hesitated, looking directly into his eyes as she read his suspicions fluently.

"She told me that it was alright for me to finally put it to rest. And that I should not blame myself for the circumstances that were beyond my control."

His own heart was pounding now as she confirmed what he believed to be true, his eyes shutting fast at the utter unfairness of it. He knew, she realized. Yet he was still listening.

"Was your experience similar to hers?" he ventured, his concern for her covering the exposure she felt as she prepared confess everything.

"Somewhat," she breathed, her hands beginning to fidget uncomfortably again. "He was a guest here, a Turkish diplomat, actually. I made a fool of myself flirting with him throughout the day. He kissed me after dinner—rather shockingly, actually—and I told him that if he ceased his advances that I would not inform my father of his behavior."

"But he did not heed you," Charles spoke for her, laying a large hand atop her trembling ones, the warmth of him a welcome balm.

"No," she whispered, hesitating but a fraction of a moment. "He found his way to my bedroom."

A thick hush consumed the room, the ticking of the clock in the corner sounding unnaturally loud to her ears as her every sense seemed to pause momentarily.

"Did he hurt you?" he finally asked haltingly, searching her carefully for the truth of her reaction.

"Not in the manner you are suggesting," she confessed, looking to him for understanding as she faltered, "but...but in others..."

She could not bring herself to speak the words, yet he unflinchingly understood her silence.

"Dear, God," Charles uttered softly, the deep emotion Mary observed in his eyes filling her with an odd sense of absolution. "What was your father's response to his actions?"

"My father did not know about it until many years later," she admitted, the confusion in his gaze prompting her forward. "I could not bear his disappointment, not when I had already lost favor with my mother."

"How could she fault you for such a thing?" Charles interjected, standing as his anger refused to allow him to remain in a seated position. Mary did not answer at first, pressing her lips together firmly as she relived that defining moment in her mind.

_Did he force you?_

She had been shaking so horribly, her mind racing over so many things that had been unthinkable— a lingering, burning pain just there she tried so hard to ignore, the insistent fear that blood might yet run down her leg, the horror creeping through her mind that she had killed him somehow... Her utter mortification as she saw herself through the eyes of her mother and Anna.

"You did not tell her?" he deduced through her silence, returning to the small sofa to calm her distress as his ire began to abate somewhat.

"I told her that he did not force himself on me," she replied huskily, facing him with trembling courage as she added, "I could not think clearly...I was still in complete shock, actually. You see, he...he died...there in..."

His jaw hung open, his eyes unable or perhaps unwilling to formulate a picture of what she was telling him. His hand ran through his hair as he turned his gaze away from her for a fraction of a moment in an attempt to piece these fragments together cohesively.

"He died in your room?" he finally voiced, continuing softly as she shut her eyes in assent. "Forgive me, was he still...?"

Her silent nod fractured him, comprehension of the utter nightmare she had lived gripping his gut painfully.

"How old were you, Mary?" he whispered, her eyes widening at the familiarity with which he had addressed her, yet astonished by the soothing intimacy of it.

"Nineteen," she replied unsteadily. She suddenly had a difficult time believing the fact herself, one simple admission making her examine the entire situation with new eyes as she sought his for a reaction. Had she really been that young?

"Good God, how frightened you must have been."

His words caught her off guard as her own fright had never been mentioned by anyone that she could recollect. Her shame, the possible ramifications of her actions, how to conceal the truth or best deal with exposure had been discussed more than she cared to remember. But her own fear? She had buried it privately as she often had so many other unwelcome emotions that were entirely too difficult to face alone.

"Was there anyone to help you? What on earth did you do?" he asked, striking her momentarily speechless by the fact that there had been no flicker of disdain in his countenance nor words of shock over her behavior.

"I awoke Mama and Anna," she returned, oddly noting his surprised expression might actually seem somewhat comical under different circumstances. "We...we moved him back to his room so no one would know."

Inexplicably, he began to chuckle.

"Dear God, you are remarkable," he finally stated, staring at her with something Mary could not quite identify as he concluded, "Iron and steel, indeed, my lady. I do not know many men who could have accomplished the feat that you three women managed." All traces of hilarity vanished from his features as quickly as they had emerged, his eyes mirroring his fractured voice as he uttered, "I am so very sorry, Mary. So very, very sorry."

It was done. Perhaps truly done, she hoped, a chapter she could close with finality once and for all. And the relief she felt was potent. His thumb captured a stray tear trailing a solitary path down her cheek, lingering a mere moment upon her face in a tender benediction. She stared at him, waiting for his sudden excuse to leave her or at least for a flicker of disappointment to cross his countenance with a dreadful expectancy. But he did not falter in his expression, nor did he move from his seat.

"Well," she observed huskily, "you are still here." "

Would you rather I be elsewhere?" he prodded softly, unsure of exactly what emotions were stirring just under her skin.

"No," she smiled softly, meeting his gaze. "I just keep expecting you to suddenly realize what I've just told you and decide to flee the room."

"I may be many things, Mary, but I do pray that I am never a fool," he returned softly.

"So you don't mind a woman with a past?" she queried, the hitch of uncertainty in her voice betraying her nervousness in asking such a question. A rather wistful look overtook him.

"I was raised at a girl's school by an unmarried woman who was basically cut off from her family for a tragedy not so very different than the one with which you just entrusted me." He held her gaze fast, his voice heavy with conviction as he stated, "Let me assure you, I have absolutely no intentions of walking away from you unless you ask me to do so. And I never want to hear you refer to yourself in such terms again."

"My, my, aren't you demanding?" she observed, small patches of relief now beginning to slowly circulate within her.

"You've told me that before, you know," he teased gently before his expression once again became serious. "Besides, everyone has a past, and mine leaves me no room in which to judge you, believe me."

His statement straightened her spine, her eyes searching him diligently as she attempted to imagine just what he could have done for him to make such an assertion.

"I'm sure it can carry nothing more shocking than what I have already told you," she put it, hoping that he would feel the same level of trust with her that she had just bestowed upon him.

"Mary, you were given very little choice in the matter," he stated directly. "I, on the other hand, made some rather poor decisions, indeed."

"I chose to give in to Mr. Pamuk rather than scream," she returned flatly, swallowing deeply before she continued. "I chose to keep it a secret from Matthew for too long instead of being forthright with him when he first proposed. I chose to become engaged to a man to keep my scandal from being splashed across the newspapers, so if you think that I have not made my share of poor choices in this life, you would be dreadfully mistaken."

"It sounds to me as though you were protecting yourself in the absence of someone to do it for you," he observed carefully, her sudden look of surprise quickly replaced by one of contemplation as her eyes moved rapidly back in forth examining her past.

"I've not lived my entire life unprotected, Mr. Blake," she asserted, uncertain if she liked this conclusion he had spoken.

"I am quite sure of that," he answered, "but have you never have moments when you felt as if no one was there to shield you?"

"Why would you ask me such a thing?" she demanded, feeling rather uncomfortable as his questions hovered too near a pulsing nerve.

"Why do you not wish to answer?" he whispered calmly, making her shake her head in denial for reasons she could not name.

"Am I now obligated to answer everything you ask of me?" she retaliated rapidly, unsure of why she felt so defensive as she stood to her feet.

"You are not obligated to speak to me at all," he replied gently, risking her ire as he rose up beside her, "but I am most honored that you do."

"What do you want from me?" she demanded, all frustration from his line of questioning gushing out from her at once as she turned from him, taking strides across the room to settle this onslaught of turmoil.

"The very last thing I would ever wish to do is distress you," he responded calmly, taking two steps towards her. "But I do want you to realize that we often react quite differently when we are attempting to protect ourselves or someone we love than we would under normal circumstances."

Her lack of retort encouraged him forward as he dared bolder strides in her direction, carefully risking a bit more as he stated, "I realize I have known you only a matter of days, but it is clear to me that you protect those whom you care about rather fiercely."

"Is there something wrong with that?" she ventured, the thickness in her voice betraying her high level of emotion.

"Not at all," he replied quietly. "It's exceedingly admirable, in fact. But do you ever allow anyone to take care of you?"

She turned slowly, dark eyes widening upon an ashen pallor as she swallowed. He moved two steps closer. She reminded him uncannily of a graceful doe caught unawares, poised to flee but too frightened to move.

"It is rather difficult to let one's guard down when you've been dreadfully hurt so many times," he pressed gently, stepping nearer yet.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her eyes closing to ward off the discomfort brought about by his words.

"So that you will give yourself some grace, Lady Mary," he offered softly, moving to stand before her. "You do not have to bear the responsibility for everything that has gone wrong in your life."

"Don't I?" she managed, still unable to face the measure of his gaze when she could not even bear the weight of her own.

"No," he breathed, tilting her chin up ever so gently. "It will consume you alive if you allow it. It very nearly ruined my life, in fact."

Her eyes widened slightly, the realization that he had deftly shifted the focus from her life to his own taking root immediately. A door had been cracked, a small invitation issued. He was granting her permission to ask.

"Your wife and daughter? Did you blame yourself for their deaths?" she queried hesitantly, noting that this time it was she who had caught him slightly unaware. "I noticed your expression when Tom was holding Sybbie tonight at dinner," she explained, the lingering grief in his eyes serving as an added confirmation of her observation.

"I wondered if you had caught that," he revealed, his shoulders falling slightly as a renewed weight settled upon them. "I'm not sure if there is a man alive who does not hold himself at least partially responsible when his wife is lost giving birth to his child."

"Tom once said something very similar to me," Mary revealed, searching her memories for clarity. "Not long after I lost Matthew, actually."

Heavy strain marked brown eyes that normally danced with laughter.

"I never had the chance to even see her, you know."

His admission had been uttered so very softly that she might have missed it had she not seen his lips form the words. She shuddered slightly at the change in atmosphere as he allowed her to step into the darkness of his own hidden realm.

"I am so sorry," she offered, leaning forward into him even as she had feared venturing closer just seconds ago. "That must have been very difficult for you."

"We had wanted to have children for years, but we had such difficulties," he stated, drawing a deep breath. "We lost three in the early stages of pregnancy, and we had truly begun to wonder if perhaps it was just not meant to be." A feeling she all too readily understood. "We were elated that everything seemed to be going so well this time," he continued, the vulnerability in the edges of his eyes urging her to touch his arm. "I had been in the city for a few days on business, and I worried about her the entire time I was away. I had purchased gifts for the both of them before I journeyed home—we were getting so very close. But when I got there, her father met me at the door to inform me that they were both gone. They had died but hours before I arrived."

She bowed her head slightly at the harsh impact of his words.

"Why were you not allowed to see your own child?" she asked finally. His chuckle bore no trace of mirth as his fingers swiftly ransacked his hair.

"Her family was so very much against our marriage," he answered, her brow darkening in confusion as he continued, "Her father most certainly did not approve of me."

"Why on earth not?" she inquired, wondering just why his wife's parents would not be happy with such a man. The intensity with which he looked at her alerted Mary to the importance of what he was about to tell her, the uncertainty that flickered there only increasing her confusion.

"My wife was Indian, Mary," he stated resolutely, watching her with unblinking eyes as she digested his words.

Dear God.

To say she was taken by surprise would have been accurate, and realization dawned steadily upon her that she had already somehow visualized his late wife in quite a different manner. She had been Indian, not English or of European descent, a fact which would be quite scandalous in many circles. What her family might make of this knowledge she dared not venture. But Mary found that to her, it simply did not matter.

"You must have loved her very much," she deduced, looking upon him with eyes newly focused.

"I did," he smiled, a bit of tension dropping from his shoulders as he could read no censure written upon her. "We met when we were so very young. Her father was a rather prominent local official who had frequent dealings with our estate, and Rashmi often served as a translator in delicate transactions."

"Rashmi—that is a lovely name," Mary stated, appreciating the genuine gleam of adoration on his face as he spoke of her.

"She was a lovely woman," Charles returned, the slight tilting of his head suddenly reminding her of one of Matthew's most endearing mannerisms. Was it possible to ache for two different men at the same time? She reasoned it must be so, for the pull towards both tugged resolutely within her. How odd that they did not seem to be in competition any longer. "She was intelligent, well-read, and loved to laugh," he continued. "We knew that we were embarking upon a difficult road together, that neither my father nor her family would support our union, but we decided to marry despite their disapproval."

"That was quite brave of you," she admitted softly. "It rather reminds me of my sister Sybil's marriage to Tom. He used to be our chauffeur years ago, you know." He stared back at her in genuine amazement.

"No. I was unaware of that fact. And it makes me respect him all the more."

"Even after how he treated you earlier?" she questioned, rather surprised at his revelation.

"I respect a man who tries to protect a woman," Charles voiced sincerely. "Mr. Branson was only attempting to watch out for your best interests."

"And just who protected your interests when your own wife and child were withheld from you?" she ventured, noting the quick gleam of recognition as her question registered with him.

"No one, I'm afraid," he admitted, hanging his head as he stated, "I wasn't even allowed to give them a decent burial."

The brokenness of his features tore at her, the scars of a life torn asunder suddenly so clearly visible. And Mary hesitated, afraid of breathing too loudly as she knew the enormity of what she was about to ask.

"Did you name her?"

His control finally faltered. And he could not look at her, dipping his head just as the first tears formed in his eyes.

"I called her Rashmika."

"After her mother?" she whispered, stepping forward until she was nearly leaning into him.

"Yes," the sheer weight of his voice pressing upon her. "And for its meaning. Rashmika means ray of light."

His tears very nearly made her knees buckle. And this time, she held him.

Mary never knew just how long they stood there together, her arms cradling his head to her shoulder, her fingers weaving themselves instinctively into his hair in a familiar gesture of comfort. And when his arms encompassed her tightly, hers automatically followed suit, cleaving to him as if she could grant him a solace he could find no where else. Just as he was offering to her.

"Forgive me," he finally uttered, releasing his grip on her gently. "I did not mean to fall apart on you like that."

"And just how many handkerchiefs have you given me now?" she replied as lightly as she could, relieved to observe a renewed flicker of light finally stirring within his gaze.

"Am I supposed to be keeping count?" he voiced, attempting to regain full control of his composure.

"If you won't, then I won't," she returned, smiling softly in recognition of his kindred need to appear less shaken than he felt.

He paused momentarily, drawing measured breaths before stating, "I reacted very badly to their deaths, I'm afraid."

"How else would you have reacted?" she returned, renewing her grip on his arm. "After losing so much, after being barred from performing those final acts of respect for their lives? I don't know of anyone who would have reacted nicely under such circumstances."

"Perhaps not, but I should have demonstrated more self-control than I did," Charles returned, shaking his head at his own admission. "I fled to the city and nearly destroyed myself. I squandered every penny my father had given me in brothels and bars...Dear, God, it was not pretty—not in the least."

"Grief is ugly," Mary whispered, flinching inwardly at her own painful memories. "I was not the best of mothers at the beginning, I'm afraid. I would look at George and not even notice him. All I could see was Matthew, and it just hurt too much." He squeezed her arm in sympathy as she added, "There were days that I cared for my own child out of obligation rather than any feelings of love, I am ashamed to say."

"Don't ever be ashamed of that," he insisted, "for you did what you were supposed to do. You did take care of George, whether you felt like it or not. And you overcame those negative feelings in the process of becoming a most excellent mother. I, on the other hand, let my emotions rule my logic and behaved not much better than a barbarian."

"But you did overcome it, did you not?" she put forth, drawing his attention fully. "You now own your own estate and are caring for your aunt in a most compassionate manner. You did not let your grief destroy you."

"I believe you cut me too much slack," he stated resolutely.

"As if you haven't done the same for me?" she mused, finally glimpsing those dimples that were quickly becoming dear to her.

"So you are not shocked at the fact that my wife was Indian?" he ventured.

"After I just told you that a Turkish diplomat died in my bed?" she breathed softly, amazed at how those words had just left her mouth without hesitation or fear. "No, Charles, I am not shocked."

Her deliberate use of his given name drew his immediate attention, granting him the courage to slowly seek out her hand. And they stood there, immobile and silent, even as the lights began their flickering waltz yet again, finally leaving them in darkness save for the lingering fire.

"Mary," he breathed, his gaze moving between joined hands and eyes of rare depth, "I know all of this is very sudden, and I most certainly do not want to push you too hard."

She paused, taking him in fully in a manner unavailable to her until this moment. Before her stood a man—a good and decent man—who understood her pain and knew the worst of her secrets. Yet he wanted to take a chance with her.

A chance to be happy again.

"Don't worry about me, Charles," she finally answered, meeting his eyes squarely. "I do know how to push back."

She took the arm he offered, relishing his nearness as they made their way back up the very steps they had earlier descended. They stopped at the door to her bedroom, turning to face each other under the protective canopy of darkness.

"Good-night, Charles," she finally murmured, the need to touch him yet again prompting her forward as a tentative hand rose to cup the side of his face. Impulsively, she leaned forward, trembling lips brushing his cheek ever so delicately in a small gesture of promise. He inhaled sharply at her touch, a large hand gently encircling the back of her head in response. Warm lips descended slowly, sending small shockwaves down her limbs as they achingly grazed her temple, his breath lingering there ever so lightly as he whispered, "Good-night, Mary."

Her hands grasped the lapels of his jacket to hold herself upright. And he knew he was utterly lost to her.

They remained there in the hall a moment longer, clasping on to this newness between them, their quiet refusal to break contact an unspoken testament to a lingering fear that it might vanish without warning. And it was only when necessity forced their hand in making them release their small claim on each other and retire to their own rooms that the lights dared to flicker back on.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations with Cora and Anna lead to new emotional revelations for Mary, just before she takes on a new adventure with Charles and George.

Sleep had not come easily. 

For what seemed like hours, Mary had lain awake, staring at the ceiling as if it would grant her the opportunity to review the night's happenings upon its surface. Myriads of images paraded through her mind, her heart drumming the cadence that prompted them to continue their persistent circling.

Matthew...Pamuk...Charles...his wife...they were all impossibly with her, stubbornly refusing to leave her thoughts until she had finally fled to her window just to be afforded a bit of privacy. As she stared out into darkness, she could just envision his daughter, a precious innocent unfairly denied the right to life and the love of her father. She was still unable to wrap the blinding pain he must have suffered around her mind, suddenly feeling the need to rush down the hall to his room and press him securely to her yet again. How she wished she had the power to restore that tiny miracle to him, to allow him to cradle his own living, breathing child in his arms even if for only a moment. At least Matthew had been granted that privilege, even though he had been denied the gift of a lifetime with his son. But she had been given no such power. And Charles's interactions with George now spoke to her with even more clarity. 

From the confines of her window, she surveyed the grounds of her home under the cloak of absolute night, a view with which she had become all too familiar during the weeks after Matthew's death. How she had begged her body for sleep, the only escape from the nightmare of her life she had allowed herself, yet even that one small comfort had mockingly alluded her all too often. Living had hurt so very much that she had at times desired to cast herself out the very window from which she now gazed, the ghosts she sensed upon the lawn the only company she sought. Yet tonight, thoughts of the spirits of those she loved roaming the grounds below her brought her an odd measure of peace, a fact that both comforted and disturbed her. She held no desire to remain buried in the throes of grief any longer...yet she could not—would not—allow herself to forget. 

Fingers touched the cold surface of glass, her breath casting a misty shadow as she pressed her forehead to the pane. Somehow it felt like a protective barrier erected for the sole purpose allowing her a glimpse into a world out of her reach even as she moved forward in the one that surrounded her. She whispered his name but once, eyes drifting shut as she drew the drapes around her for warmth. And for a shattering moment, he was there. 

Tears fell...she could not stop them as she stood embraced by shadows. Moon-kissed skin shivered, touched by memories of a treasured past life. 

Past life. 

She grudgingly opened her eyes to her surroundings. The sky's unearthly shimmer commanded her attention even as her present returned. Its harsh edges were somewhat smoother than she remembered, a glimmer of stars now visible through the thinning veil of clouds. She allowed the drapes to fall, clasping her own arms in the need to hold living flesh within her hands. And the view of the waxing moon painting the landscape in silver hues brought back one event with crystal clarity.

She had kissed him.

That reality thrummed inside of her with a relentless dominance, making quite certain that she could in no manner forget that it had been she who had instigated the contact. Mary could formulate no explanation for her action, for it had taken her as much by surprise as it had Charles himself. She could still feel the texture of his cheek beneath her fingers, still sense the heat of his skin that was even more pronounced when touched by her lips. And his response, the gentle brush of his mouth upon her temple… 

It was no wonder she could not rest.

The depth of her reaction had been unexpected, the raw need to clasp him close, the betrayal of her legs as they wantonly faltered the moment his lips touched her skin, the surprise at just how very different he felt. The heady relief from that simple fact droned a consistent accompaniment for any other theme playing in her mind. He had not felt like Matthew, and that knowledge carried the power to nearly make her weep in gratitude.

It would have killed her if he had. 

Her finger traced an outline softly across her lips, painting a translucent trail across her jaw before sliding with delicacy down her neck. And she stood at the window wondering...fearing... hoping. 

She returned to her bed, waiting for the guilt to descend, to convict her of being shallow and cold as she had overheard others refer to her when they were unaware that she was listening. But it never arrived, and she had finally succumbed to sleep still rather amazed by its absence.

And she had dreamed of Matthew.

* * *

 Ms. Glynis Campbell would indeed work out well. 

Well, at least she now believed it might be possible. Mary had been quietly pleased at the girl's cheerful yet understated manner as she assisted with her morning routine. Ms. Campbell had listened to any instruction Mary had given and absorbed it instantaneously, obviously eager to make a good impression without speaking more than necessary. And for that, Mary was extremely thankful. She had then moved on to the nursery to see just how the morning was progressing with Nanny Thompson. She was alerted immediately to a problem brewing inside as George's unhappy wails could be heard the moment she entered the hall. Her mother was standing outside the closed nursery door, her ear nearly pressed to its surface as she unashamedly eavesdropped on the one-sided conversation taking place between her grandson and his new nanny. Mary's brows rose in a question, Cora's shoulders' shrugging in response as both women stood immobile, wondering just what was to be done. Mary had finally had enough.

"He has to get used to her, Mary," Lady Grantham whispered, "just give him a few minutes more before you rush in there." 

"I refuse to stand her and listen to him cry any longer," Mary returned, her unease at hearing her child in distress propelling her forward.

"But it will make his adjustment to her take that much longer," Cora argued, shifting her stance so that she blocked the doorframe altogether. "Sometimes it is necessary to let him cry it out." 

"George has had too many adjustments to absorb in his young life," Mary insisted, moving a step closer to her mother in insistence. "I shall not force another upon him if he is not ready." 

"But Mary," her mother began, halting her protest as she noted Mr. Blake's progression down the hallway in their direction. She turned from her mother's gaze, intentionally hiding her face lest her expression reveal more than she was yet willing. The sight of him both comforted and unnerved her, pitting opposing urges to flee or reach out to him squarely against each other. She licked her impetuous lips, remembering with clarity how they had acted of their own accord just hours ago in this very hallway. Demanding fingers began to crave the texture of his cheek, twitching involuntarily to meet this need as she clasped her hands together tightly lest they take action without her consent.

Had her own mind and body held a secret council to plot their own course of action while she slept? Keeping a respectable distance was proving to be even more challenging than she had anticipated. 

"Good morning, Lady Grantham," Charles stated, bowing slightly to her mother before his full attention rendered her immobile. "Good morning, Lady Mary." 

His eyes betrayed him, wordlessly speaking to her of his own raw need to make contact in order to seal this newly forged standing between them. And her expression thanked him for addressing her formally in front of her mother, for keeping up necessary pretenses even as her memories of him whispering her name into her skin fluttered treacherously inside. 

"Good morning, Mr. Blake," Cora responded. "You look rather refreshed this morning. You must have slept well."

"I must credit the company found here rather than sleep, Lady Grantham," he smiled in return. 

So he had been restless, as well. 

Had is mind been as occupied last night as hers had been? A secret thrill scurried up her limbs at the idea. 

The piercing wail of an unhappy child sounded through the door, drawing Charles's attention turned to the nursery entrance as he questioned, "Is George alright? He sounds a bit distressed."

"No. George is having a rather trying morning," Mary began. "He is-" 

"He is having difficulty adjusting to his new nanny," Cora interrupted quickly, "Mary and I are just trying to give Nanny Thompson some time to ease things over with him." 

She looked up at him with meaning, her back still resolutely to her mother. And he read her contrasting opinion flawlessly. 

"Well, then, I am not sure if I have arrived at an opportune time or not," he began, watching Mary carefully. "I was actually coming to seek your permission to procure George's assistance with a project I am undertaking this morning, Lady Mary. However, if you feel it would interrupt this bonding time..."

"How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Blake," Mary cut in, catching the flicker at the corner of his mouth, "and I cannot think of a reason why George could not spend some time with you this morning." 

"I am relieved to hear it," he returned, "I shudder to think of just how things might turn out without his help." 

"What on earth makes you require George's assistance, Mr. Blake?" Cora asked, her puzzled expression quietly demanding an explanation. 

"I am afraid that would be giving away a surprise, Lady Grantham," Charles replied, his dimples doing their job admirably as her mother questioned him no further. 

"Then by all means you have my permission," Mary cut in. "Although you must know that I am supposed to visit Anna this morning, so I shall be out for a while." 

"Then I hope you have a delightful visit," he returned softly, patiently waiting for Lady Grantham to open the nursery door and step inside. "After you, Lady Mary," he breathed, the slight hitch of uncertainty in his voice touching her somehow. His hand then flickered deliberately across her back, an assurance that their time in the darkness had indeed been real, not a mutual fleeting fancy. The gesture went unseen, yet it was keenly felt. And she could have sworn his hand had trembled. 

When they entered, George let out a yelp, attempting to fly to his mother as Mary staked her claim and caught the child. He quickly buried his tear-covered face against her shoulder, rubbing it back and forth as she attempted to calm him.

"I am sorry he's having such a difficult time," Nanny Thompson stated quietly. "Perhaps a change of scenery might do him good." 

"I agree," Mary stated, "We shall give you some time alone with Sybbie while George calms down."

"As you wish, my lady," the younger woman replied, smiling as her other charge ran up and embraced her legs. It was quite evident that Sybbie was having no difficulty in becoming attached to her new nanny. But poor George was utterly miserable. The four of them then left the nursery and made their way downstairs, George's occasional sniffle urging his mother to hug him more tightly to her chest as she bestowed a comforting kiss upon his forehead. 

"Are you quite sure that you want to take him on in such a state, Mr. Blake?" Mary questioned as they of them entered the sitting room. 

"I am willing if he is," Charles responded, ruffling George's dark curls and drawing the boy's attention. "Besides, time spent in his mother's arms has improved his demeanor already."

Eyes quietly hinted of shared secrets as George offered Charles a wide grin. And Cora beheld it all with precision. 

George remained attached to his mother a moment more before agreeing to a transfer, immediately grabbing Charles's nose in that funny gesture of recognition that always struck her. 

"If you will excuse us, ladies," Charles began, "we have rather important business which to attend." His attention then turned squarely to the child in his arms as he put in with enthusiasm, "Let's get to it, George." 

Off they went towards the back of the house, Mary and Cora leaning forward in interest as George happily waved good-bye to them. But the potent stare she received when Mary returned her gaze to her mother took her a bit off guard.

"What?" Mary inquired, entirely unsure if she was actually prepared to receive an answer. Cora wordlessly handed her a book—her book—she realized with a start, his gift that had been left behind last night in the aftermath of intimate conversation. 

"Your present, I assume," her mother put forth, quirking a brow at her daughter in a manner even Mary had to grudgingly admire. Her breathless surprise at the complete oversight wordlessly confirmed her mother's deductions. 

"Thank you," she managed, reclaiming what was hers with hands she fought to keep steady. "I must have left it down here by mistake."

"I thought as much," Cora continued, probing undertones making Mary fidget uncomfortably. "A book of poetry—how very thoughtful of him." 

"Yes," Mary stated, "he is a very thoughtful man." 

Cora stepped directly to her eldest, clasping her arm as she voiced, "Be careful with him, Mary."

"Mama, I do not think you need to concern yourself over Mr. Blake's character," Mary tried, cut off decidedly before she could complete her statement.

"I don't mean in that manner. I mean be careful with him," Lady Grantham returned meaningfully, speaking with a deliberation that emphasized the importance of each word. "He is already quite taken with you, Mary, and I would hate to see him disappointed."

"And you think that I shall disappoint him in some fashion?" Mary questioned, staring incredulously at her mother. Breathing evenly became her primary focus as she sought to calm the rumblings deep within. 

"I think your emotions are still volatile right now," Cora expounded. "I know you like him, and it's obvious that the two of you are very attracted to each other." 

"And to think that I thought that might please you," Mary retorted, the uncertainty of just where her mother was taking this conversation crawling nervously up her spine. 

"It does," Cora emphasized, giving her daughter a half-smile. "I think the two of you have a lot of promise, Mary. I just don't want to see you..." 

"What? Ruin everything?" Mary interrupted, her mother's real meaning finally becoming clear. "Is that what you are afraid of, Mama? That I shall do something to destroy this promising relationship as I have every other one in my life?" 

"That is not what I said," Cora tried in a futile attempt to assuage her daughter's rising ire.

"But that is what you meant, is it not?" Mary demanded, her chest rising and falling markedly. Lady Grantham's heavy sigh was all the answer she required. And her bitter laugh of response cut through the atmosphere between them sharply. "Dear, God, that's it! You think that I will somehow turn him against me or behave in such a manner that he flees from my presence. Thank you, Mama, for having such unwavering confidence in me!"

"I do have confidence in you, more than you have ever realized," Cora defended, the steel flashing in her gaze commanding her daughter's attention. "It is just that he is beginning to look at you the way that Matthew used to, Mary. And you left his gift sitting here for anyone to find."

She felt as if she had been punched. Mary skirted silently to the door, shutting it with a deliberation not lost upon her mother before rounding upon her. 

"Is that what you think?" Mary fired, moving back in the direction from whence she had come. "That I am toying with him in some sort of emotional frenzy? That I am using him for my own pleasure only to toss him aside eventually for something better? Really, Mama, if your assumptions weren't so absurd they would be laughable!"

"Then tell me what this is," Cora replied evenly, "so I won't formulate any further ridiculous conclusions." 

Mary sat abruptly, rubbing her forehead as if to exorcise the anger from her mind. 

"Last night I sat in this very spot and told him of Mr. Pamuk," she finally admitted, drawing nothing short of absolute shock from her mother's expression. "And he told me details of his wife's death and of the fact that he was never even given a chance to see his own daughter." Cora nearly collapsed into the seat beside her, the roundness of her eyes steadily increasing. "Let me assure you that his gift being left behind had nothing to do with any lack of appreciation on my part," Mary defended, feeling all too vulnerable under the scrutiny of her mother. "I do pray that even I am never that heartless." 

The nearness of him overwhelmed her memories, the brokenness he had allowed her to witness still fresh in her mind. She shut her eyes tightly, the tentacles of deep emotion still embedded within her senses as she sought her reason for the right words.

"We were both just a bit overcome after all we had shared, I'm afraid." 

Dear God—after all they had shared. 

"Oh, my darling girl," Cora whispered. "I owe you such an apology."

The sudden shift of emotion was almost surreal for Mary, regret that she had volunteered so much descending quickly upon her like a shroud. But it was too late to retreat, she deduced, leaving her the options of moving forward or standing her ground.

"I'm really not sure what to do, honestly," she finally admitted, her mother grasping her hand in support. 

"Most of us don't in situations such as this," Cora returned, her face alight in new understanding. "I'm afraid there is no map to follow in matters of the heart." 

Mary's eyes closed yet again as she haltingly took up the thread threatening to unravel her. 

"He...he cannot be looking at me as Matthew did," she voiced, the weight of her words requiring extra effort to push them from her mouth. "You must be mistaken, Mama."

"Not in the manner Matthew gazed at you when you were married, Mary," Lady Grantham explained, squeezing Mary's hand in assurance. "That was the look of a man who truly knew his wife in every way, a look that can only be cultivated over time." Cora breathed deeply, the emotional fragility of her eldest stirring protective instincts anew, even for this child of hers who had so often resisted those very impulses. "What I just saw upon Mr. Blake's face was so very similar to the expression Matthew wore when Lavinia and Richard were still with us, the one he would only allow himself to show when he was certain that no one else was looking," her mother added, watching Mary's face for understanding as she plowed forward. "It's the look of admiring someone more that you think is prudent, of wanting so badly to be able to express your feelings to them even thought you understand that it might not be wise." 

Mary dared a direct gaze upon her mother's face, unsure of the wisdom of that decision when Cora concluded, "It's the look of someone falling in love when he fears his feelings may not be reciprocated." 

Mary shut her eyes, Matthew's face achingly clear as she visualized that dance from what seemed a lifetime ago. The phonograph had played that tune from a show he liked in spite of himself, the show that flopped she herself had labeled the pair of them. She had been shaken to a depth she could not fathom as he had drawn her ever closer, confounded by the burning look he gave her as he whispered, "Oh, God, Mary,"... His lips had hovered so agonizingly close...and that kiss that had taught her to hope until reality descended the stairs and knocked the air from her lungs.

Then the eyes gazing upon her were brown, staring at her in compassion as she spread her past open before him leaving little to his imagination. The smile before her was dimpled, goading laughter from a soul who wondered if she would ever be able to experience such a simple joy ever again. And the lips were new—wondrous yet still unknown to her in ways she wished to explore yet feared touching all the same. What was she to do with all of this? 

"I'll be careful with him, Mama," she breathed, the promise hovering between them as a fragile covenant. 

"I know that you will. Just be careful with yourself, as well," her mother returned, pulling her daughter into an embrace needed by both of them more than either would ever verbalize to the other. 

* * *

The solitary walk to Anna's had been cleansing, the brisk breeze whipping her skirt a refreshing welcome after the unnerving scene with her mother. Keeping her hat in place was her only annoyance on the journey, the wind teasing it so that Mary was tempted to remove the blasted thing. Her courage in that matter failed her, however, and her hands took turns holding it securely upon her head, increasingly thankful for her short hairstyle even as she cursed her lack of daring. Sybil would have removed her hat without a moment's pause. She smiled wistfully as she remembered the moment Sybil had modeled her first pair of trousers, wishing not for the first time that her father's expression could have been captured by on film. Mary wondered if Sybbie possessed that same streak of independence, that inner fire that lit her mother from within yet burned no one who ventured near. 

How she missed her, longing for her youngest sister's counsel even as she could only wonder what her advice would be. Just what would her sister say to her concerning Charles Blake? Would she encourage Mary to continue moving forward with him? Caution her to be reasonable? Warn her to stand strong when her senses threatened to overwhelm her or push her to cast herself into this sea of promising enticement? How tragic that she was forced to imagine what her sister would advise, robbed of that special camaraderie unduly. But she could stand keeping her feelings tightly bound only so much longer, needing an outlet that would listen to her confusion without judgment or undue expectation. So she sought the counsel of the other woman with whom she felt comfortable enough to share this cascade of emotions that she could not sort out alone. 

Anna was sitting up in bed when Mary arrived, obviously as eager for the company as she was tired of being restricted in her actions. 

"Good morning, Anna," Mary began, smiling at her missing companion. "You are looking very well." 

"You are much too kind, mi'lady," Anna returned, rubbing her abdomen with affectionate impatience. "I know that I must look a fright."

"Nonsense," Mary retorted, taking her seat by the bed. "Have you not heard that all expectant mothers are radiant?" 

Mrs. Bates stifled a giggle, pushing herself up taller in the bed. 

"That's funny. I seem to remember you once describing yourself as a pillow squeezed into a stocking when you were expecting Master George." 

"You of all people should know by now not to listen to what I say," Mary mused, passing a basket along to her friend. "It will only lead to trouble."

"That's not true," Anna replied. "It's just knowing how to translate what you say that can get tricky sometimes." 

Mary grinned in spite of herself, shaking her head slightly as she offered, "And that is why you are so sorely missed, Anna. Too many people don't bother with the translation, and I'm just stubborn enough not to speak the common tongue." 

"I have missed your company, too," Anna laughed good-naturedly. "I am quickly losing my mind having to stay in bed and do nothing." "

You cannot have much longer to go," Mary stated, trying to encourage the other woman even as she remembered the utter discomfort of advanced pregnancy. 

"Hopefully no more than a week," Anna spoke sanguinely, halting her passing thoughts. "I cannot imagine that I have any room left in here for this baby to grow. She must be getting uncomfortable." 

"She?" Mary questioned, her senses stirring in interest. "Do you think it's a girl?" 

"Both Mr. Bates and I do," Anna confirmed, a rather ethereal smile shining through as she imagined her child. "But we'll be thrilled no matter what."

"I know you will," Mary responded, the very idea of not needing to be concerned over an expected child's gender still a bit beyond her grasp. How very freeing it must be! She had spent more than half of her pregnancy agonizing over the need to provide Downton with an heir rather than freely indulging in pondering the sex of her baby. Anna opened the basket lid in anticipation, her eyes widening in delight at the contents. 

"Thank you, mi'lady. This looks good enough to eat." 

"It should be safe enough seeing that I had nothing to do with its preparation," Mary stated drily. "Mrs. Patmore did all of the work, I'm afraid. I just told her what I wanted." 

"It is still extremely kind of you to think of us," Anna said with a grin. "I never have been much of a hand in the kitchen." 

"I am certain that you are more skilled than I am," Mary voiced, quietly pleased at the other woman's delight. "Speaking of skills, how is Ms. Campbell working out?" Anna inquired directly, Mary unsure of just what the other woman would prefer to hear as an answer.

"Fine, so far," Mary admitted, "Although she'll never be you, I'm afraid." 

"You are too kind," Anna added, adjusting her position in an ill-gotten attempt to get comfortable.

"No—I'm not," Mary quipped. Mrs. Bates shook her head in disagreement. 

"You are much kinder than you like to let on to anyone, mi'lady, and I've known you too long for you to disagree with me." Mary quirked her brow sharply.

"Alright. But you must promise not to tell anyone. We have a house full of people coming later today, and I should hate it dreadfully if word got out." 

"I promise, then," Anna conceded, her expression betraying her eagerness for news as she asked, "And the new nanny? How is she working out?" 

"Temporary nanny," Mary corrected, giving Anna another pointed look that awaited confirmation. 

"Temporary nanny," Anna agreed, filling Mary with a most profound sense of relief as her hopes on this issue were left dangling no more. "She and Sybbie are getting along quite well, I believe," Mary answered. "But George is having a more difficult time of it. Mr. Blake actually took him for a while this morning to keep him happy."

"I did hear that Mr. Blake arrived a day early," Anna hinted, the eagerness in her expression resembling that of a child with a new toy.

"Hmmm...news travels fast, I see," Mary quipped.

"You're not the first visitor I've had this morning, mi'lady," Anna confessed, dropping her chin a bit. "Mrs. Hughes was here earlier with a basket of her own." 

"And just what did she bring you besides the latest news?" Mary inquired, always a bit stunned at just how early the morning began for those in service.

"Mrs. Hughes is truly not a gossip, but we do often talk to each other." Anna paused, picking up another basket and handing it to her visitor. "She made the most beautiful blanket for the baby. Here—see for yourself." 

Mary examined the handmade quilt with a modicum of reverence, the time and effort put into crafting such an offering momentarily overwhelming her. 

"It is exquisite, Anna," she stated, allowing herself to rub the soft material across her fingers before returning it to the rightful owner. "I am useless when it comes to making anything, I'm afraid." 

"But not useless in attracting handsome suitors," Anna dared, dangling bait so obviously that Mary just shook her head. 

"I'm not sure just what Mrs. Hughes has told you, but I offered him a place to stay while his aunt is recovering her health in the hospital," Mary reasoned, easily noting that Anna was not going to be put off quite so easily.

"That was very kind of you," Anna grinned, the gleam in her eyes forcing Mary to roll hers in exasperation. 

"Yes, it was rather," Mary agreed, actually procuring a giggle from Anna that finally drew one from her, as well. 

"It's been a while since I've heard you laugh," Mrs. Bates stated, her mood becoming more serious. "I am very glad to hear it."

She sat quietly for a moment, still rather stunned by the re-emergence in her life of such a simple pleasure. 

"Believe me, I still do my share of crying," Mary confessed solemnly, remembering tears shed just last night. And the arms that held her while they fell. 

"That's alright," Anna put in sincerely. "We all carry so many different emotions all jumbled up together inside. It's a rare moment when we only experience one at a time." 

Mary's pulse began to throb, the need to unburden herself suddenly urgent as she stared thoughtfully at the woman across from her. 

"I kissed him, Anna," she finally breathed, unable to look at her companion as her confession spilled from her lips. The moment of absolute silence that followed was actually tortuous, making Mary begin to rethink her impulsive decision to admit her actions.

"You did what?" Anna finally exclaimed, unbelieving excitement nearly pushing her from the bed as she leaned forward as far as her pregnancy would allow.

"I believe you heard me the first time," Mary returned, chancing a glance at Mrs. Bates and nearly laughing at her expression in spite of herself. '

"When?" Anna demanded, her eyes continuing to widen as her jaw remained slack. 

"Last night," Mary confessed, quickly adding, "and it wasn't really a proper kiss, you understand. I kissed him on the cheek."

"But you kissed him!" Anna cut in emphatically. "Did he kiss you back?" 

"On the forehead," she admitted quietly, frantically trying to contain the blush she felt creeping up her neck as Anna gently tossed her body back against the pillow with an audible sigh. 

"Did he do a good job?" Mrs. Bates whispered mischievously, sending a bolt of surprise straight through Mary. 

"Anna!" she shot back, unable to contain a matching giggle as Anna succumbed to them rather quickly. "Yes...he did, rather." Mary finally gave in, her friend's gleeful expression almost too much to bear.

"It all sounds rather exciting," Anna breathed, sitting up straight again as her eyes again questioned Mary. "And how are you today?" 

She weighed the question carefully, too many emotions rolling within to voice them all. How on earth could she possibly explain this never-ending Ferris Wheel her life had become when she herself still had trouble making heads or tails of it.

"I am well, I think," she finally responded, gauging Anna's unconvinced expression and knowing her answer would not suffice. 

"That's it?" Anna finally voiced, tilting her body forward as she tried to pull the truth out of hiding. "You kiss a man who was a stranger to you last week, he kisses you back and all you can say is that you are well?" 

"Any other answer is just too complicated," Mary sighed, her hands beginning to fidget in her lap. Anna considered her response, digesting Mary's words thoughtfully before replying, 

"It is alright for you to be happy, mi'lady. I hope you know that."

Mary's eyes reluctantly searched those of her friend, her brow creasing in thought as she voiced, "Is it really, Anna? What if I'm not meant to be?" 

"Where would you ever get an idea like that?" Anna asked quickly, disbelief edging the rim of her voice. Mary drew a deep breath, her thoughts flying back to that rainy day that still stung in her memory. She had been there at his request, standing next to him in the cemetery with which she was now much too familiar, the finality of his words to her striking like nails driven into her own coffin.

_We are cursed, you and I._

"Mr. Matthew once said it," she reluctantly uttered. "Right after Lavinia died."

"He was speaking out of grief," Anna returned. "And you know what grief can do to your logic." 

"Yes, I do," Mary breathed, standing as her legs could not bear to remain immobile a moment more. "But look at what happened to us, Anna. What if he was right all along?" 

"But he wasn't," Anna insisted, searching desperately for the right words. "What happened to Mr. Matthew has nothing to do with you, mi'lady. It was an accident—a horrible accident—but it didn't happen because you deserved to be punished." She drew a deep breath, refusing to break eye contact as she continued, "And he would never want you to think this way. He would want you to be happy." 

"Even with another man?" Mary dared, her heart beating uncomfortably in her throat at the impact of her own words. 

"What do you think?" Anna returned, leaving her room to answer herself. 

What did she think? 

She had wanted Matthew to be happy so desperately that she had accepted Lavinia for his sake, even when the other woman's presence made her own sense of loss more acute. She had smiled when the act strained every fiber of her body, played the part of a happy fiancé when she wanted to run screaming from the room, all because she had desired his happiness above her own. Yes—she would have done anything within her power to ensure that Matthew was granted every drop of joy he could have possibly squeezed out of the life he had been granted. 

And she knew that he would want nothing less for her.

A knock upon the front door startled her from her thoughts.

"That will be the nurse who checks up on me periodically," Anna clarified, still searching her friend's face for clues as to her emotional state. "Don't worry—she will let herself in." 

Mary nodded silently, moving towards the bed as she grasped surprisingly strong hands.

"Thank you, Anna," she breathed, something in her expression seeming to satisfy Mrs. Bates as she smile gently in response. "I shall return tomorrow to see how you are doing." 

The nurse announced her entrance from the front room, prompting Anna to pull Mary forward and whisper loudly, "Kiss him again." 

Mary drew back in surprise, certain that she had heard the sentence correctly but taken completely aback by the boldness of the command. And Anna simply smiled back at her, raising her own eyebrows in a wordless challenge Mary knew she would find nearly impossible to resist. She turned to make her exit as the nurse came in cheerily, immediately stepping to the bed to fluff Anna's pillows and check her pulse as Mary moved to the door.

"Properly!"

She froze instantly, turning in search of confirmation of the word she had heard tossed in her direction with precision. And Anna's returning grin was so blissfully innocent that Mary knew she had misunderstood nothing.

* * *

The wind was still in a playful mood as she approached the big house, threatening to steal her hat in a game of hide-and-seek she knew without a doubt she would lose. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye—a large bird, perhaps? No—yet it swooped down again on the east side of the manor, tweaking her curiosity just enough to set her feet upon a path in that direction. The destination to which they led her left her momentarily speechless. 

Charles and George were seated together on a blanket, the elder of the two speaking to George as if he could understand every word as he adjusted what looked to be the tail of a hand-made kite. He had not yet spotted her from the angle at which he was sitting, granting her the freedom to creep stealthily towards them and shamelessly eavesdrop upon their conversation. 

"I believe we have made the correct adjustments, George," Charles continued, still oblivious to her impending approach. 

"Kite! Kite!" the boy exclaimed as he pointed up to the sky, pulling a smile from his mother at how much his version of the word resembled _cat_. 

"That's right, we're going to fly this kite," Charles instructed, touching the boys nose and making him clap his hands in glee. George then plopped his hands down on the blanket, pushing himself up with deliberation as he teetered purposefully towards the man who sat mere inches from him. Tiny hands cupped his cheeks just before dimpled arms wrapped around his neck. Charles set the kite down promptly, carefully pinning it beneath his knee lest their prize be lost, and hugged the child close to his chest. 

Dear God. 

Her heart stood precariously on tiptoe, betraying her yet again as a tear formed without her consent. It was one of the most beautiful sights she had ever seen, yet almost more than she could allow herself to take in. All motion was suspended as she witnessed this moment she knew with certainty was now forever etched in her mind. Yes—it should have been Matthew, but Matthew was gone. And Charles Blake was here. 

"You are such a good boy, George," he affirmed as the child stepped back, smoothing his dark head fondly. "Shall we give it another go, then?"

"Perhaps that should depend on what you are planning to do," she broke in purposefully, relishing the fact that George was their only witness as he turned in her direction. 

Was this the look that her mother had witnessed? Its very intensity stilled her. 

He appeared quite differently to her now, as a painting that had suddenly taken on an extra dimension through an in-depth knowledge of its background. How very visible to her were the fierce brushstrokes of pain masquerading in his smile, how utterly clear the flecks of vulnerability etched his eyes. The vivid pallet of Indian tones were so vibrantly a part of him, yet they were tempered by the more subtle hues of Scotland and sophisticated strokes of Oxford. Mary had never experienced anyone quite like this man standing before her now, his complexity so beautifully intriguing. Then she suddenly wondered if he was reading her just as carefully as she was studying him. 

Anna's instructions then burned in her ears, his tenderness with her son only spurring her forward as she added impetuously, "After all, one should not waste repeated effort unless the task at hand is worthwhile." 

The roguish grin then made its entrance. And she knew that the game was afoot. 

"A valid point, indeed, Mary," he conceded willingly as he stood to greet her, "but if the appointed task is truly worthy then diligent practice is most assuredly wise." 

Her gaze dropped involuntarily to his lips...a fact that did not go unnoticed by anyone but George.

"It is good to know that you are not one to walk away from a challenge," she stated. "But prefer to keep at it until the task at hand is mastered."

"Hands and tasks are quickly becoming two of my favorite things," he grinned, grasping hers gently within his. It emerged again, that deep ache refusing to be ignored as it swelled treacherously at the stroke of his thumb, cresting up her limbs at the caress of his mouth upon her fingers. Just how proper would Anna consider that, Mary wondered breathlessly. "While there are many other challenges I am more than willing to master, George and I must tend to our kite at the moment." he offered, the glimmer in his eyes alerting her that he would be most willing for her to follow every syllable of Anna's advice if she chose to act upon it.

"Hmmm...that sounds intriguing," she mused. "And just what adjustments were you making, may I ask?"

"Just taking care of the tail," he explained, giving it a tug even as George reached for it in vain. "It is foolhardy to neglect it, you understand." 

"And just what purpose does the tail serve?" she inquired, smiling at her son's obvious enjoyment of this outing.

"Well, it helps to balance the kite and allows it to fly straighter," Charles explained, eyeing his handiwork one more time before adding for her benefit. "And when it moves about, it is delightful to observe." 

He dared. 

"Should you not be careful with it less it strike you while it is in motion?" she quipped, circling around him. "I would think that tails could be dangerous indeed if one eyes them too closely." 

"Only if it causes one to neglect the remainder of the frame," he breathed, the motion of his hands as he inspected the kite suddenly feeling quite personal as she watched them in fascination. "Careful consideration must be given to every facet, you understand. You must pay attention to each small detail if you want it to fly smoothly." 

Their eyes locked...and she could barely breathe. 

"Come, Mary, you can help," he finally stated, grabbing George back up in one arm while he held the kite in the other. "Why don't you steer it for us?" 

Her eyes widened as her breath caught in her throat. 

"That's alright," she returned. "I am more than content to watch you and George manage." 

He looked at her quizzically, stepping once in her direction as he implored, "Mary—please tell me that you have flown a kite at least once in your life." 

She heaved a small sigh, turning her gaze towards the grass around her as she responded, "Would you prefer me to satisfy your request or answer truthfully?" 

He shook his head slightly, holding the string out to her insistently as he instructed, "There's really nothing to it. Come on and give it a go. " 

Why she was so nervous about holding a piece of string she would never know, but she clasped onto it with faltering hands, shrieking in surprise as the force of the wind nearly pulled it from her grasp.

"Don't hesitate to hold it firmly," he coached her. "You don't want to let it get away from you." 

"I assumed that much," she retorted uncomfortably, trying desperately to keep the thing airborne as George pointed to the sky. 

"The key is not to fight the wind, but to release the kite into it," he explained, walking stealthily around her. She pulled the string rather harshly instead, sighing in frustration as he added, "You must relax your body, Mary. Let your hands do the work." 

"Somehow that sounds easier said than done," she breathed, finding his instructions rather ridiculous as she fought to keep from losing the blasted thing. 

"Not really," he disagreed. "Keep in mind that this structure was made to soar. Your guidance just gives it the freedom to do so." 

His arm came around her from the back instantly, coaxing hers in silent direction as his sudden proximity made her legs tremble.

"Now just let it out a bit, like this," he breathed, warm instructions tickling the surface of her ear disconcertingly. "Don't yank it too hard, Mary. Release it slowly—steadily—just like that." The kite began to dance before her much to George's delight, but her attention was riveted to the action she could not see as she felt his lips just barely make contact with the side of her ear. Her arms jumped in response, sending the kite into a bit of a frenzy. She could feel his chuckle vibrate across her back. 

"The control lies in your hands, you see," his voice hummed into her neck. "Don't be afraid of it. You command this vessel."

"It is rather difficult to steer with outside interference," she murmured, the waves of his soft laughter splashing over her insides. 

"Just hold it gently, steadily...that's it," he continued, his hand moving atop hers as he encouraged her to let it soar even higher, releasing more string from tightly wound confines as the kite rose steadily. "And if you move your hands just so..." he continued, pulsing hers up and down in rhythm, taking her completely by surprise as the kite began to spin in arcing circles. She watched in fascination as it danced in oblivion before her eyes, starting just slightly at the contact of his cheek daring to press itself against hers.

"You are doing very well, Mary," he observed, her ache morphing steadily into a driving pulse as she felt his dimple form against her skin. "I believe you must be a natural." 

His lips were just there, his mouth so close that is she just tilted her head ever so slightly then... 

Her body jerked convulsively, pulled forward with a force that ripped her from his arms. His laughter behind her only served to flare her temper, George's cries of "Uh-oh," alerting her to the crisis at hand. 

"The point of flying a kite is to keep it away from the trees, Mary," Charles explained, chuckling even as he saw the daggers flying from her eyes towards a target she could clearly visualize upon his head.

"A rather impossible feat with pests buzzing about your ear," she fired, becoming all the angrier as his smile just grew before her eyes.

"At least it wasn't the bat trying to bite your neck," he crooned, handing her son over to her care as he plopped upon the grass and began to remove his shoes. 

"What are you doing?" she questioned, confusion overtaking ire as he then began on his socks. 

"Going after the kite," he answered reasonably, his jacket joining the other discarded items of his clothing as he rolled up one sleeve. 

"You're planning on climbing that tree?" she asked incredulously, George chiming in as he repeated the word, pointing towards the oak in emphasis.

"That is the general idea," Charles confirmed, heading off in its direction as Mary watched in a stupor.

"Do you just want to break your neck, or do you think you shall win my favor by taking on such asinine tasks?" she exclaimed, following him in exasperation as he stared up at the tree looming before him. 

"As far as necks go, I would much rather concern myself with yours rather than my own," he grinned back at her, earning a well-deserved eye-toss from her as George struggled to get down. "And just what do you find so objectionable about retrieving a kite from a tree?"

"You will get hurt," she stated factually, disbelief that he could not fathom this notion clearly painted upon her features. "And I have no desire to play nursemaid to you." 

"If you will be my nurse, then I am definitely climbing up," he smiled, jumping up to grasp on to the lowest branch as he pulled his body up with effort.

"God, what a stubborn man," she spoke under her breath as she watched him climb steadily upward, George looking at her in confusion as the wind finally tore the hat from her head. She cried out without meaning to do so, watching in frustration as her hat sailed across the grounds until she heard an exclamation, a grunt and a thud. 

"Are you alright?" he demanded, pulling his body up slowly from the ground beneath the tree where he had just obviously landed flat on his back.

"What happened to you?" Mary demanded, concern for his well-being propelling her legs quickly in his direction. 

"I heard you scream, and I lost my balance," Charles admitted, looking up to her with the impish expression of an errant boy. 

"You're bleeding," she announced, kneeling down beside him and granting George a modicum of freedom to toddle around in the grass.

"Where?" he asked in confusion, examining his own body for evidence of an injury.

"Just there," she answered, pulling one of his handkerchiefs from a pocket in which she had secretly placed it. She touched it to his temple, a rather nasty-looking scratch continuing to pour forth its anger as his blood dripped down the side of his face. "Well, come on," she instructed, standing on her own before offering him a hand up. "I guess I shall have to play nurse to you after all." 

She picked up George, quieting his frustrations at losing his freedom of movement before turning to Charles and adding decisively, "And if you make any impertinent remarks concerning this situation, I shall gladly give you stitches, whether you need them or not." 

"And just where are you planning to administer said stitches," he dared, risking the obvious danger to catch the anticipated gleam in her eye.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she purred, her attempt at a sharp expression softened by the twitch in her cheek as she fought a smile.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isobel and Mary have a heart to heart, Charles and Isobel reach an understanding, and Mary hovers between moving forward and stepping back.

"Ouch!"

Charles jumped, earning himself a rather pointed glance from his newly appointed nurse as she tended the nasty scratch now grazing an angry trail across his temple and forehead.

"Would you please sit still," Mary commanded, pausing in her cleansing ministrations to the wound. "You're a worse patient than George, for God's sake."

"That's because you are enjoying yourself entirely too much at my expense," he retorted, gifted with a sideways smirk from her. "I doubt you wear such an expression of triumph if George protests."

"Well, if you had only listened to me in the first place, you would not be in this predicament," she returned, applying the stinging liquid yet again to his face. "So now you must take your medicine."

"I believe I have had entirely enough medicine for one day," he stated, wincing at the slight discomfort. "Don't you think that scratch is clean enough by now?"

"One should never take any foolish chances," Mary instructed, "such as climbing trees when it is entirely unnecessary."

"I think George would take my side in this issue," he insisted. "We spent quite a bit of time crafting that kite this morning."

"Don't you think it's a bit underhanded to enlist a one year-old to support you?" she questioned, pausing her ministrations to look at him directly.

"Not when the one year old is as clever as George," he grinned, earning himself quite a look from the child's mother.

"Now I know you are just trying to get back into my good graces," Mary deduced. "But I must caution you that flattery will get you nowhere in this situation."

"Not even off of this blasted stool?" he inquired, his feigned look of injury procuring nothing but a sigh.

"Especially not off of this stool," she insisted, ensuring that the bleeding had indeed stopped before moving on to other matters. "At least not until I am certain that I've fixed you up properly. Now, let me look at that shoulder."

"There is nothing wrong with my shoulder, I assure you," he argued, eyeing her stubbornly.

"It is bleeding through just there, so there is clearly something amiss," she replied. "Now are you going to unbutton this shirt, or do I have to do it for you?"

"Well, if those are my choices…" he began, smiling broadly at the stabbing gaze she aimed in his direction.

"Don't look at me that way. Remember the consequences I promised you for any impertinent remarks," she stated firmly.

"I made no remarks," Charles retorted, raising his own brows in defense.

"Oh, yes you did," Mary insisted, her expression brokering no argument in the matter while it made him grin.

"I see neither needle nor thread in here," he observed, looking around Mrs. Hughes's sitting room from his perch. "Perhaps I am in no actual danger."

"I'm sure Mrs. Hughes could have one in my hand within a matter of seconds if I asked her," she reasoned, sharpening her glance on his features. "And I was instructed on how to administer stitches during the war when Downton was converted into a convalescent home. You had better behave yourself, Charles."

"And did you ever stitch anyone up, Nurse Crawley?" he teased, finally drawing her eyes to his for more than a few seconds.

"No," Mary admitted, tilting her head as she pondered the situation. "But I suppose there must be a first time for everything."

"So I would be your proverbial guinea pig?" he mused, pursing his lips together before concluding, "That is not a very comforting thought."

"Perhaps not to you," she crooned, "but I am becoming more and more attracted to the idea. Now stop stalling and unbutton that shirt while I cut a new bandage."

"I must say, Lady Mary, I never expected such behavior from you," Charles teased. "I believe that Mr. Carson would be shocked, indeed."

"Trust me, I saw my fair share of men's upper torsos during the war, Mr. Blake," she retorted authoritatively. "I cannot imagine that yours would be so exceptional that it would render me incapable of performing my duties."

"And I believe your bedside manner leaves something to be desired," he prodded, following her instructions and watching in fascination as she measured out the wrapping and began to cut it.

"I'm not even going to acknowledge that remark," Mary poked back, moving towards him as his shirt slid off the injured shoulder, exposing his left arm. "What on earth did you do to the poor branches to make them so angry with you?" she questioned, stepping in to eye the deep gash that cut across his collar bone and down his chest. "I didn't realize that limbs could be so sharp."

"Trees like that have to have sharp branches in order to eat kites, you see," Charles replied, her proximity threatening to distract him terribly. That moment vanished, however, as he jumped in response to the alcohol-soaked cloth being pressed firmly to his shoulder.

"I had no idea that flying kites could be so treacherous," Mary said smoothly. "From now on you shall have to take more precautions."

"Perhaps you can lend me your armor," he retorted, a small hiss escaping him as she applied yet another round of antiseptic.

"Perhaps," she quipped, suddenly eyeing him quizzically as she pondered an item of interest. "Who taught you how to build and fly a kite, Charles?"

"Mr. Fraser," he answered directly. "He was a solicitor that took care of any legal issues with which Aunt Catherine's school would have to deal. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I assumed it was not your father," Mary admitted, looking him in the eye, "and I am having rather a difficult time of picturing your aunt taking on such a task."

"Very astute of you," Charles replied, a slight wince pinching his expression that had nothing to do with the alcohol applied to his cut. "My father spent as little time with me as possible, I'm afraid. His only interest in having a son was to perform his duty in having someone to whom to bequeath his estate." It was her turn to flinch inwardly. "Mr. Fraser came to school on a regular basis," Charles continued. "He always insisted that it was to check up on things, but I have suspected for some time that he was secretly interested in my aunt."

Mary smiled softly.

"A secret admirer—how very intriguing. I wonder why he never said anything to her?"

"I can't answer that," he concluded, "other than he may have been afraid to face the possibility of rejection."

His eyes were so close, too close as she drew her gaze from his shoulder to his face.

"I can understand that," she admitted with measured reluctance. "I was frightened of revealing my feelings to Matthew for years...even when he was sent to the front. Carson told me that I would regret it if something happened to him and I never let him know the truth. Now I can't help but wonder if things would have been different if I had taken his advice and been bolder."

"It is never easy to lay your feelings out in the open when you are unsure of the reaction you will receive," he agreed softly, his eyes dropping to the floor a fraction of a second before returning to face hers directly. "Don't punish yourself for decisions made in your past, Mary."

"Said the pot to the kettle?" she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper as he gave her a half-smile.

"Said the pot to the kettle," he agreed, his mouth twitching slightly in a manner that made him appear very suddenly unsure.

"So Mr. Fraser took it upon himself to teach you about kites?" she asked delicately as she finished cleaning the wound.

"Yes, he did," Charles reminisced, "as well as fishing, riding and a bevy of other pursuits he felt it was important for all lads to learn. I think he was concerned that my upbringing was somewhat lacking as it was taking place at a school for girls."

"That's understandable," Mary put in, looking to his shoulder as she prepared to bandage it. "Still, it was very kind of him."

"He was a man with no son, and I was a boy without a father," Charles stated wistfully, offering her a brief glimmer of a much deeper internal wound carved out of sheer neglect. "It worked out rather well for both of us, I think."

Her heart thudded painfully in her throat, the obvious parallel stilling her hand as she clutched the bandage tightly.

"I am glad you found each other," she whispered, swallowing deliberately in an attempt to return a semblance of order to her senses.

"So I am," he breathed. Her attention was sharply commanded by a gash newly seen, an old scar that began just below his shoulder blade and disappeared into his undershirt quite conveniently.

"What is this?" she asked determinedly, drawing back far enough to look him in the eye.

"That was very nearly the end of me," he replied, attempting a flicker of a grin that she cut off with the seriousness of her expression. "And the wake-up call I needed to get my life back in order."

She peered closely at the scar again, quelling her instinctive need to pull the shirt aside to examine it fully.

"Just how far does this extend?"

He silently pointed to the bottom of his ribcage, remaining calm even when facing the horror upon her face.

"Dear God, what happened to you?" she demanded, her mouth slightly agape as she began to realize the enormity of this wound from which he had recovered.

"I started a fight with three men in Bombay," he sighed, his fingers brushing through his hair as he continued. "It turned out that one of them had a knife."

"Why did you start a fight in the first place if you were so clearly outnumbered?" she demanded, unable to quite imagine the man before her acting in such a manner. And inexplicably angry with him for putting himself at risk.

"I had had a bit to drink," he admitted, unable to meet her gaze as she watched him intently. "And they were attacking a woman."

She was somewhat aware of the noises taking place outside of the closed confines of this room graciously offered, this new knowledge of his life striking her mercilessly as the enormity of it pushed its way in. The painful finality of death dropped as a stone in her stomach, and she mourned those lost yet again even as she was thankful that at least he had been spared from its voracious appetite.

"How did you recover?" she managed, the bandage in her hand all but forgotten as she felt the need to tend to this scar already healed.

"At the hands of some amazing women," he grinned, drawing her eyes up sharply as a small chuckle escaped him. "The Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy."

"You were rescued by a group of nuns?" she questioned intently, nearly dropping the bandage.

"Some men found me and delivered me to their doorstep," he explained, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he finished, "I had basically been left on the street to die, you see. No one really expected that I would last through the night. No one except Sister Deborah, that is." He smiled ruefully, shaking his head slightly in remembrance. "She kept a vigil by my bedside for two days, praying continually that God would spare my life."

The chill of death blew down her neck, making her shiver as she contemplated just how narrowly he had escaped its ugly talons. And how during the war she had prayed in the same manner for Matthew.

"I am glad that He did," she whispered, her gaze solidly fixed upon the floor.

"So am I," he breathed, wordlessly beckoning her eyes to his where they lingered in silence. "Although there are times when I am still uncertain why He would choose to do so."

"Don't say that," Mary requested softly, a silent plea issuing forth from under her eyelids.

"If you insist," he offered quietly. "Anyway, I stayed with them for nearly a year, assisting them with tasks around convent and projects throughout the neighborhood. They in turn offered me a place to live and a needed refuge from my life."

"They sound rather marvelous," Mary put in, still piecing together these new bits of him in her mind.

"They were indeed," Charles agreed immediately. "Those women helped me in more ways than I can ever repay."

"Were you ever able to forgive your father?" she queried, still having difficulty in fathoming a child being so unwanted by his own parents. "He did have quite a bit to answer for, in my opinion."

He sat in thoughtful contemplation, his expression creasing as his gaze moved from one point to another in the room.

"I'm not really sure, Mary," he admitted honestly. "I hope that I have, and I did attempt to make things right between us before he died. But it is difficult to offer forgiveness to someone who never sees the need to seek it from you."

"I suppose that it is," she breathed, realizing the true gash in his chest had been formed long before the street fight in Bombay. Halting hands then stretched forward, boldly touching his rib cage in a gentle inquiry. A single nod granted her permission as she hesitantly lifted the side of his shirt. Her eyes traced the puckered flesh, her thumb following the marked path in reverence as she learned this small plot of his landscape. His slight intake of breath halted her surveying immediately as she pulled back in hasty embarrassment.

"Did I hurt you?" she inquired quickly, instinctively knowing the answer before it was given.

"No, Mary," he whispered darkly. "You did not hurt me."

A shiver rocked her from the depths of her being. She could no longer maintain the professional façade donned in order to treat his injuries. It fell to the ground, leaving in its wake the insistent knowledge that they were alone and that he sat before her in a partial state of undress. Heat stung her cheeks and dried her throat as the full weight of just how intimately she had touched him throbbed blindingly through her veins. She had kissed his cheek, she had touched his skin…and still from the recesses within came a cry to know more of him.

"Mary," he whispered, the husky choke in his voice betraying the state of his own need. And she began to burn.

He stood from his perch on the stool, his hand claiming hers as the forgotten bandage fell to the floor in neglect. Her fingers wrapped around his instinctively as he drew them agonizingly upward, caressing each knuckle gently with his lips as she watched in fascination. Her blood began to throb forcefully, heat within her spreading fast as he delicately parted her fingers, opening her palm to him fully for his inspection. He grazed sensitive flesh with his nose, her ache now sharply acute as his mouth descended to palm and claimed its center.

Dear God.

A soft moan escaped her, his other hand moving to the small of her back as it drew her in closer—ever closer. His lips trailed to her wrist, his tongue tickling her pulse until Mary thought she might truly go mad. She leaned into him, summoning his full attention towards her face as their foreheads made contact. She jumped as the pad of his finger grazed her mouth, languidly tracing an outline on the surface of lips he fully intended to kiss. It was too much, yet just what she had been craving. She could feel his breath on her skin, his mouth reclaiming the temple he had so achingly marked the previous night. His face embarked on a slow descent, his nose nudging hers so very gently as his lips brushed her cheekbone. She began to shake as her arm encircled his neck, fingers seeking the softness of his hair in her need to clasp a part of him to her as he kissed a freckle just above her jawbone. Then hot air teased her own lips, enticing them to part for him just as his finally, finally touched down….

"Oh, there you are, Mary!"

She jumped back in shock, smoothing her skirts instinctively as her pulse pounded mercilessly in her ears. Mary dared a quick glance in his direction, noting with renewed alarm that he was righting his shirt—his shirt! It had been untucked and half-removed from his body, his undershirt drawn up his torso leaving him partially exposed. And Isobel stood before them, understanding with a clarity marked upon her face what she had just interrupted as she stood silently agape.

"I heard that you had been injured, Mr. Blake," Mrs. Crawley recovered quickly, smiling brightly as if she had walked in on the two of them having tea.

"Yes, I fell from a tree," Charles returned, looking rather more composed than Mary felt except for the blackened tones in his eyes, the somewhat flushed state of his skin, the state of his hair where her fingers had…

It was utterly hopeless.

"It was very good of you to tend to him, Mary," Isobel replied in a rather chipper fashion, moving towards the pair in a slow precision to inspect the injuries herself.

"Lady Mary has been an excellent nurse," Charles added, her gaze throwing him a pierced warning from over Isobel's shoulder.

"I am glad to hear that you remembered so much of your training, dear," the older woman continued, nodding her head in satisfaction as she turned to her daughter-in-law. "You have done a fine job in tending to Mr. Blake's wounds."

Mary could not formulate an answer, swallowing with all the force she could muster as she turned her gaze from the all-too knowing one of her mother-in-law. To her knowledge, Isobel had never even seen her in such a state of dishevelment with Matthew—her own husband—for God's sake! Just to think of what she had seen…what she must be thinking.

"Isobel, I…" she tried, blood rushing to her head with such a speed that it nearly made her dizzy. She grabbed the edge of the table for stability as her legs felt momentarily week, bringing Charles immediately to his feet as he sprang to her side in assistance.

"Are you alright, Mary?" he questioned, forgetting himself as he addressed her in such a familiar manner.

"Yes, I think so," she answered, stifling a sudden urge to run from the room.

"Sit down, my dear," Isobel instructed calmly, pulling out a chair as Charles assisted her into it. "Mr. Blake, perhaps you would fetch a glass of water for Mary."

"Of course," he responded promptly, fastening a button as he exited the room. She sat motionless, wishing she could press a damp cloth to her own burning cheeks as she forced herself to face the woman with whom she was now momentarily alone. But Isobel remained uncharacteristically silent. And Mary was unnerved.

"Heaven knows what you must think, Isobel," she finally managed, focusing squarely upon her hands as she found herself unable to look anywhere else. "There is no logical explanation, I'm afraid. It's just…he just…" Words then failed her. And the older woman pressed her lips together thoughtfully, finally extending one hand to cover Mary's two.

"There is no need for apologies, my dear," Isobel replied in such a matter-of-fact manner that Mary's gaze flew to her face. "It seems to me as though you are simply finding yourself again."

Her mother-in-law's eyes were glistening, her smile quivering brightly as she clasped the younger woman's hands tightly.

"You are grabbing on to life, pushing yourself forward, forging something new," Isobel continued, continuing to amaze her daughter-in-law as Charles quietly re-entered the room. "Good for you, Mary. Good for you."

The enormity of this unexpected gesture laid before her filled her own eyes with moisture. What the woman had walked in on was far removed from what was considered proper interaction between two unmarried people—even those who had been widowed. Yet Isobel was a widow herself. Realization quietly dawned that the rumblings of emotion stirring within her could not be all that foreign to Mrs. Crawley. She was a woman, after all.

"Thank you," Mary whispered, actual speech unable to make its way through the tightened confines of her throat. Then she looked up and found him. Charles remained on the perimeter, hesitant to interrupt this interaction wrought with apparent difficulties for both women. But her gaze summoned him forward and he placed the water in her hands, watching her closely in concern.

"Are you feeling better?" he questioned, searching her face closely.

"Yes, thank you," Mary answered quietly, his gaze suddenly too much to bear as a myriad of emotions assaulted her at once. She quite abruptly felt the need to be alone.

"Your mother would like to see you, my dear," Isobel continued. "She asked me to send for you just before I came down. Something to do about guests cancelling, I believe."

"I shall go and see what she wants," Mary nodded, self-consciously attempting to straighten any remaining hairs that had come as undone.

"That's fine, then," Mrs. Crawley returned. "I shall finish tending to Mr. Blake while you take care of business upstairs." "Oh, perhaps you would do me a favor, as well, Mary," Isobel continued, catching her daughter-in-law just before she exited the room. "I was planning to accompany Mr. Blake to the hospital to pick up Lady Catherine and bring her back to Downton. I do feel, however, that it might be more practical if I remain here and make sure that all is in order for her arrival. Would you consider taking my place and going with him?"

Mary stared at her in a bit of a stupor, certain that she must have just misunderstood what seemed to be spoken so clearly.

"That is, unless you would rather not have to return to the hospital again, my dear," Isobel added, searching Mary's face for a sign of what she was thinking. "I do understand if that is the case."

"No—no, it is fine," she stated, catching the small smile of appreciation upon Charles's face as he witnessed this exchange. "I would be happy to assist Mr. Blake and Lady Catherine. Now if you will excuse me."

She made her retreat, shutting the door behind her as she continued to contemplate just what had taken place in the confines of Mrs. Hughes's sitting room… And what might be occurring now that she had left the vicinity.

Charles watched Isobel Crawley in a respectful fascination, unsure of just what she would say yet admiring the manner in which she had interacted with Mary. That the two of them had forged a special bond was evident. But just what Matthew's mother might have to say to him after what she had just witnessed was not clear at all. She turned her full attention to him, creasing her brows as she stepped in his direction. She first cut a new bandage, applying it deftly and in silence to his shoulder before stepping back to address him.

"Mrs. Crawley," he began, wondering if she were waiting for him to formulate an apology or explanation for what she had unwittingly witnessed. "Please allow me to…"

"There's no need for that, Mr. Blake," Isobel interrupted, her tone suddenly crisp and business-like. "We are both adults here."

He smiled at her in newly forged respect.

"Yes, we are."

"I understand from your aunt that you lost both your spouse and your child not too very long ago," she observed empathetically. "I am very sorry. I know the pain of both acutely, I'm afraid."

"Yes," Charles responded. "It would seem as though we share an unfortunate commonality. I am sorry for that as well, Mrs. Crawley."

Her gaze was penetrating, as if she were trying to discern his every thought and motive as she stood immobile before him.

"Take care of her, Mr. Blake," Isobel finally voiced, her expression leaving him in no doubt that he had just been issued a command of utmost importance. "Even if she is reluctant to let you do so. Mary is quite a strong and proud woman, you know. But she is still very fragile, more so than she would ever want to admit."

"I know," he uttered, a renewed sense of responsibility for Mary's well-being settling resolutely upon him.

"It is rather ironic, actually," Isobel mused, clasping her hands together in front of her, "I did not care for Mary when we first met, and I know she resented everything that I represented. But I have watched her grow into quite an amazing woman over the years, and my Matthew loved her so very deeply."

"As she loved him," Charles put in, drawing forth a half-smile from Mrs. Crawley in acknowledgement.

"Mary masks her feelings very well, but her love of Matthew was so very evident to anyone who paid attention," she continued, staring into a past she would give anything to once again make a reality. "Yet Matthew was blind to it for so long. I never quite understood it."

"Emotions can all too easily cloud ones judgment and powers of observation," he stated with a slight shrug, looking towards Mary's mother-in-law as she took one step nearer.

"Well said, Mr. Blake," Isobel responded, nodding firmly in agreement. "So please, take care with her. You see, I have come to love Mary deeply myself, and I would very much hate to see her suffer any further."

"As would I, Mrs. Crawley," Charles returned softly, the raw honesty in his gaze attesting to his statement. There was a pause as a wordless understanding was brokered.

"Good," Isobel finally replied, granting him a small smile as if they had just signed a contract. "And when you go to the hospital this afternoon, don't let her wander up to the second floor. The memories of that place are still much too difficult for her to face."

"I understand," Charles stated, his heart squeezing tightly in response to the pain evident in the expression of the woman standing before him. "I shall do all that I can to protect her, Mrs. Crawley. I give you my word."

"That's all I can ask," she responded, reaching out to give his hand a gentle squeeze. "Now—let's see to that shirt of yours."

* * *

 

She had retreated within herself. Mary nodded her head and said next to nothing as her mother informed her of Lord and Lady Keeton's inability to attend the house party due to their son recovering from a sore throat and fever. She smiled at George's progress with Nanny Thompson even as very few words escaped her lips to either of them. She nodded at the appropriate times when Tom informed her of the progress in repairs happening across the estate and when Glynis sought her approval of a dress for the evening. And she hardly spoke to Charles as they drove to the hospital to pick up Lady Catherine.

Her thoughts were anything but quiet, pestering her to the point of distraction as she strove to untangle the mangled knot within her. He seemed to understand that she needed some distance to sort through all that had just happened, to process this onslaught of emotion that was making her feel as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind. Isobel's discovery of their actions had shaken her—making her need to step back and examine the situation before her with as much logic as she could muster. A mind that had been so fixed upon the past now felt overly-crowded as the present asserted itself, even more so as questions that hinted of a future now peeked around the corner, seeking admittance into a consciousness that had banished them into the realm of impossibility. She felt quite suddenly unprepared, disorganized, and dreadfully unsure.

Yet logic was difficult to summon when he sat only inches from her in the car.

He was painfully considerate at the hospital, looking after her in such a manner that an onlooker could have easily deduced that she was the patient and he her devoted husband. She smiled and thanked him, speaking jovially enough with Lady Catherine to keep further questions at bay. But she would not meet his eyes for more than a second.

And that fact was hurting him deeply.

She began to see it—the pain pooling in his expression, the slightly more clipped timbre to his voice, the manner in which his eyes traversed the landscape but truly saw nothing. And it shook her to know that this was all her doing, that just a few hours ago they had been laughing together, teasing and flirting, touching… Yet these were the very reasons she had taken a step back. George demanded her attention when they arrived back at Downton just as his aunt demanded his. But even as she played with her son in the privacy of the nursery, her thoughts strayed to the morning outing, the feel of the unruly kite string pulling on her fingers… The warmth of him pressing up behind her. She could suddenly stand this self-imposed wall of silence no longer, needing to seek him out and explain herself as best as she could.

The temptation to simply avoid him hovered before her, encouraging her to wall herself in and keep all thoughts and feelings within her own secure confines. But she had just spoken earlier of Carson's advice to her when Matthew had been home on leave, and had admitted her regret over not speaking up when she had been given the opportunity. It would be unfair to them both for her to choose silence this time. She slipped out of the nursery once George had settled in with Nanny Thompson and Sybbie, unsure of his location yet unwilling to ask anyone who might know. This was a private matter between them, something they must decipher with no further outside interference.

She slipped downstairs, careful to draw no attention to herself as she flitted from room to room. She was ready to begin searching the grounds, stifling a gnawing fear that perhaps he had grown tired of her reclusiveness already and set off for York. She drew a deep breath to quell her unruly imagination, forcing it back into line as she convinced herself that he was not the type of man to simply walk away from her. Then she found him.

He was back in the corner of the small library, examining a shelf of books Mary knew housed volumes of history and some of her father's favorite biographies. If he noticed her entrance into the room, he did not acknowledge it, pulling a well-worn edition from the shelf for further perusal. But he did hear her shut the door fast behind her. And the book in his hand was suddenly all but forgotten.

She moved wordlessly in his direction, holding up her palm towards him to ward off any unnecessary apologies she knew he would offer without hesitation. She crossed the space separating them, finding direct eye contact more and more difficult as she drew nearer. He stared at her in silence, the uncertainty filling his eyes forcing her to close her own to muster the clarity she needed.

"Mary, I…" he began, his gaze dropping to the floor as he dreaded the words he feared she would utter.

"Don't," she interrupted, daring a step closer and swallowing to loosen the words sticking stubbornly in her throat. "You did nothing wrong, Charles."

He drew a deep breath, now searching the ceiling as he ravaged his dark locks.

"But I must have done, Mary. I pushed you too hard downstairs, I should not have…"

"Stop it, please," she demanded, unwilling to allow him to continue down this path of self-recrimination. "This is about me, not anything you did or did not do down there." She had claimed his full attention, his eyes compelling her to continue. "One week ago, I did not even know you, Charles Blake," she stated, her expression creasing in explanation. "Yet within a few days I have told you very personal things—things I have never spoken of with anyone else. I shared a room with you in the nursery—slept in that same room with you. I have held you, touched you, even kissed you, for God's sake."

Mary paused to draw breath, enclosing her arms about herself. "Don't you see?" she continued, beginning to pace on the small patch of floor beneath her. "This is not like me, Charles. I behave nothing like this under normal circumstances, nothing at all."

"I would never assume that you would," he put in, shifting his stance slightly as his eyes followed her closely. "And I apologize if it seemed as though I was taking advantage." He paused, shoving restless hands into his pockets. "I should never have presumed that it was alright for me to kiss you."

She stared at him incredulously, her mouth gaping slightly.

"Is that really what you think?" she asked, her stunned expression catching him completely off-guard. "That my silence has been because I don't want you to kiss me?"

His brows drew together in contemplation, his mind struggling to follow the path of her logic but failing miserably.

"Yes, that is exactly what I assumed, Mary," he admitted quietly. "Are you telling me that I am wrong?"

She threw her arms up in disbelief, spinning on her heels to face him directly.

"Yes, you are wrong," she declared, gazing at him in exasperation. Did he truly not see what was right before his eyes? "The problem is not that I don't want you to kiss me, Charles. The problem is that I do."

His slack-jawed expression immediately informed her of his shock.

"It has been one year since I buried Matthew," she continued, shutting her eyes fast for a fractured second. "A very long, difficult year, but still only one."

"You think it is too soon then?" he questioned haltingly, risking one step in her direction.

"I-I don't know!" she answered, spreading her arms out before him. "I just never expected that I would ever want anyone else to be in my life, especially not so quickly." Her hand covered her forehead, trying to pull forth any words that at least sounded reasonable. "You stepped on to that train a week ago, and suddenly everything in my life has turned upside-down," she exclaimed. "I don't know what to make of it, I don't know what to think, how to act..." Her breath was audible, the rising and falling of her chest pronounced as she gazed at him fully.

"I don't know what to do with you, Charles Blake."

Utmost tenderness touched blatant confusion across the small space between them.

"I don't believe you have to know, Mary. Not yet, anyway." He took three small steps towards her, gratified to see that she made no move to retreat from him as he spoke, his voice quieter than to what she had become accustomed. "Would it surprise you to know that I'm not exactly sure what to do with you, either?"

A whispered laugh escaped her even as her eyes widened in amazement.

"Yes. It actually would." He pursed his lips for a moment, watching his shoes as he took a deep breath and looked back at her.

"Mary Crawley, you are the first woman I have had any desire to truly be with in five years," he admitted quietly. "Yes, I have had more time to mourn Rashmi than you have had to grieve Matthew, but that doesn't mean that this…this thing between us hasn't taken me completely by surprise, as well." He gave her a rueful half-grin, hands fidgeting in his pockets as he dared to continue. "I am feeling my way through this too, you know. I have no idea exactly what I should say or do next, if I shall offend you in some manner or make you uneasy. I'm afraid of doing nothing, yet worried about doing too much. Good God, I feel like such a bumbling oaf."

He paused thoughtfully, his hand moving across his scalp.

"I have no idea what will happen tomorrow or the day after that. We are both all too aware of how life can turn on you in an instant." She breathed audibly, cold hands clasping together in want of something tangible to grasp. And one more step was taken, even as words threatened to fail him, forcing him to clear his throat. "I just know that ever since our paths crossed on that train that I am much happier when I am in your company than when I am without it."

His tone bore the timbre of shyness, a trait she would have never associated with him until this very moment. And it moved her deeply.

"Do you ever wonder if we are doing this for the wrong reasons?" she queried with some hesitation, "That we are trying to forget or to just not be sad anymore?"

"Is there something wrong with not wanting to be sad, Mary?" he asked her gently, finally summoning the courage to take her hand within his. "Are you really so frightened of being happy?"

Her gaze fell to the floor, her pulse pounding mercilessly against her ribs as she simply nodded her head.

"It terrifies me," she finally whispered, feeling his grip tighten as he enclosed her hand within both of his.

"I understand," Charles replied.

It just happened then, a hesitant descent of his lips to hers, at first no more than a soft caress that made her own tremble in response. Her free hand slid slowly up his chest, coming to rest gingerly upon his shoulder as his mouth brushed hers again in soft strokes, each drawing a more pronounced response from her. Their hands then broke free, his seeking her back and waist while hers found his hair, clutching on to each other as the pressure of their lips continually intensified. All hesitation was then lost as lips parted and mouths tasted, this sampling of newness spiraling pinpricks up and down her spine. Her hands pulled him even closer, pressing into his scalp as his fingers traced a deliberate path across her back.

She felt breathless—somewhat lightheaded as he drew her to him purposefully, her arms intertwining around his neck instinctively, the need for more of him spurring her daring. Until the door was thrown open rudely, interruption wedging them apart yet again.

"Oh, do forgive me," a male voice preened. "My esteemed sister keeps insisting that we have arrived earlier than expected, but it would seem as though I have actually arrived quite late to this party."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome guest makes things a bit uncomfortable for Mary and Charles as they take another step forward in their budding relationship.

Mary disconnected herself from Charles, her frame shaking slightly from frustration and exposure coupled with the abrupt loss of his body warmth.

Good God—were they never to be left alone?

She bit her lip to prevent herself from swearing, choking down words that were fitting under the circumstances yet would most certainly shock her mother if she ever heard them fly from her lips. Breathing deeply became her focus, her nostrils flaring in chagrin as Charles turned to face the intruder. Shielded quite effectively from prying eyes by his large frame, she attempted to gather her wits and claim at least a semblance of respectability. But such basic tasks were proving to be rather difficult when her skin and lips were still tingling mercilessly from the aftermath of their kiss.

"Lady Mary," the interloper continued, actually daring to step further into the confines of their private haven, his pestilent smile broadening with each step. "Perhaps it has been too long since we have seen each other, and you do not remember me?"

Mary moved forward to stand at Charles's side, instantly commanding a frigid glower as she stared down this man she passionately longed to toss into a pack of wolves.

"On the contrary, Mr. Roquefort," Mary replied evenly, "You are a person quite impossible to forget, no matter how strenuously one may attempt to do so."

She heard the appreciative sniff of laughter from Charles, knowing with certainty that it was imperative that she not look at him if she were to keep her composure.

"I see that the sharpness of your wit nearly reaches that of your personality," Mr. Roquefort crooned, the absurdity of his smirk barely preventing it from becoming frightfully offensive. She felt Charles stiffen beside her, prompting her to set a hand upon his arm to halt his charge of defense.

"Not all of us are blessed with a natural dullness of temperament and mind as you have been, I'm afraid," Mary retorted, her eyebrows daring the man facing her to issue another challenge.

"Oh my, I do believe I might be bleeding after that remark," he preened. "Although from the looks of that gash upon your forehead, sir, it would seem as though I am far from being her first victim of this gathering."

"Now that is enough-" Charles rallied, stepping forward even as Mary physically attempted to pull him back once more. He drew a deep breath, righting his jacket as he demanded, "You will address Lady Mary with far more respect, sir."

Mr. Roquefort stepped right up to Charles, waving his hands frantically in mock distress.

"Easy now. You can call off your attack dog, Lady Mary. Let him know that I mean you no harm."

"Oh, I don't know," Mary replied in a markedly cool tone. "I'm rather enjoying seeing you squirm a bit, Mr. Roquefort. And perhaps he can teach you some manners."

"It certainly appears that he is quite the adept instructor in many areas," the man dared, pushing Charles one step too far as he lunged forward and forcibly grabbed the red-headed antagonist by the lapels.

"You will apologize to Lady Mary for your abominably rude behavior immediately, is that clear?" Charles growled, overwhelming Mary a bit with such a fierce protective display. Mr. Roquefort inexplicably began to chuckle, clearly outmanned if it came down to a fight with the figure looming over him.

"You do have him well-trained, Lady Mary. Why, he is already at your beck and call, and the party has only just gotten underway...well, at least for most of us, that is."

Charles knew that the thread of reason keeping him from pummeling the man in front of him was stretched dangerously thin, so he drew breath steadily as sincere words of warning hissed from his mouth.

"You are finally correct in one matter, sir. I am at Lady Mary's complete disposal and will not hesitate to defend her honor or rid her of pestering nuisances slithering about her feet at her slightest inkling." He drew the man's face even closer, not allowing for any misunderstanding as he continued, "The only thing that is preventing me from tossing you out the back door right now is the fact that you are a guest here at Downton Abbey, and for some inexplicable reason Lady Mary does not wish for you to suffer any injuries. However, I can assure you that even her generous nature has its limits, and as you have already reached the end of mine, my advice would be to tread carefully."

A small thrill surged through her as she witnessed this exchange, glimpsing for the first time both the power and flash of temper that must have spurred Charles to take on the three men who very nearly ended his own life. It would be almost alarming if not for the fact that it was displayed in all its finery for the sole purpose of protecting her.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Blake," she uttered smoothly. "I would not have you expend unnecessary energy when Mr. Roquefort's intentions were clearly meant to be humorous rather than offensive. It's too bad that he has such difficulty in distinguishing the two."

Charles reluctantly released his grip on the other man, not daring to take his eyes off him as Mr. Roquefort straightened his lapels.

"Mr. Blake, may I introduce you to Mr. Edward Roquefort," Mary put in, her gaze darting between the two as she attempted to gage if it was yet safe to withdraw the restraining hand she had placed upon Charles's sleeve. "Mr. Roquefort—Mr. Charles Blake."

"Ah, Mr. Blake," Edward sighed dramatically, "it is an honor to make your acquaintance."

"Mr. Roquefort," Charles responded evenly, even as Mary felt the muscles of his arm twitch through his jacket. Edward chuckled, the sound grating on Charles's every nerve as he pushed down the need to do the man bodily harm.

"It would seem as though my presence has put a bit of a damper upon previously scheduled activities, and my father always insisted that it was quite middle-class to wear out one's welcome," Edward grinned, backing up two steps before pausing to take a small bow. "Lady Mary, Mr. Blake, I shall see you at dinner. Carry on."

He then turned on his heels and strode out of the room, smiling knowingly back in their direction as he purposefully shut the door behind him. Mary exhaled audibly, rubbing her forehead to release pent-up frustration as Charles shook his head.

"Forgive me, Mary, but that man is a pompous ass," he proclaimed through gritted teeth, staring at the door as if he could somehow throttle Edward Roquefort through its panels.

"I rather agree with you," Mary laughed quietly in agreement. "But he is harmless. Just a complete boor, unfortunately."

"What on earth possessed your parents to invite such a creature to stay at Downton?" Charles questioned, clearly perplexed by the fact.

"Unfortunately, they have never witnessed this side of him," Mary explained. "He can actually put on quite a charming face when he desires to do so."

"Well, if he insults you again, I shall not be so patient in my dealings with the man," Charles insisted, finally returning his gaze to her. "Regardless of your parent's opinion."

"He's not worth it, Charles," she insisted with a shake of her head. "Truly. Just ignore him. That should drive him absolutely mad."

"Worth it or not, Mary, I will not allow that worm to address you in such a fashion," he declared, his tone laced with a resolute determination she understood would not be undone.

"Well, it was rather nice to observe you leap to my defense," Mary admitted coyly, her hand returning to his arm in a much gentler manner.

"I did promise to stay close to you and ward off any unwanted suitors, you know," he returned, the slight flicker of his grin lightening her mood somewhat.

"You also promised not to steal any kisses during the house party, if I remember correctly," Mary baited, noting the slight flash of acknowledgement in his eyes as he turned his body fully towards hers.

"I was not aware that the party had officially begun," he replied. "You cannot fault a man if he is caught unawares."

"Perhaps," she acquiesced blithely, "but now that it has and you are fully aware…"

"I shall attempt to steal no more," he stated with a small bow, catching a glimmer of surprised disappointment upon her face. "But that does not mean that I shall not seek your permission."

A hum of eager awareness resonated within her at his declaration, prompting her to tilt her face upwards slightly.

"I might be persuaded to grant it under the right circumstances," she breathed, her pulse responding to his nearness as he leaned in closer.

"And just what circumstances would need to be orchestrated to bring about such approval?" he inquired in a whisper, the warmth of his question skimming across her face.

"Ensuring that the door is properly locked," she answered slyly, drawing forth his dimples appreciatively as he chuckled quietly in agreement.

"A brilliant requirement," Charles stated, "but perhaps I could be granted an exception just this once…before we are forced to join the rest of the party, you understand?"

"Did your aunt ever tell you no as a child?" Mary inquired, a secret thrill speeding up her legs at the touch of his darkened gaze.

"Very rarely," he admitted with a small shrug. "And I should truly hate for you to break such a lovely tradition at this moment, Mary. It would be quite a pity under the circumstances, don't you think?"

"Indeed," she smiled, glimpsing the delight of a small victory as it settled upon his face. "What am I to do with you, Charles Blake?"

"I can think of one thing that would be rather nice," he smiled, leaning down until his lips were just achingly out of reach. "With your permission, of course, my lady."

A breath of anticipation caressed her lips, its source seeking admittance into the private wonder of her yet unwilling to plunge ahead uninvited.

"Of course," Mary whispered, the words barely escaping her mouth before it was otherwise claimed by his, much to their mutual satisfaction.

* * *

 

The rest of Edward's family did nothing to improve the quality of the guest list, in Charles's opinion. His brother-in-law James Ballard, The Duke of Hartsford, was as quietly boorish as Edward had been overtly. And the duchess, Edward's sister Lillian, spoke only when addressed directly, averting her eyes in such a manner that conveyed a boredom with everyone and everything in her immediate vicinity. He did rather hope that a means to avoid their company without offending the Crawleys could be devised, watching Edward warily as he spoke with utmost politeness to Lady Grantham. He worked intently to stifle the blatant desire to bloody the man's overly-large nose.

Mary's attention had been drawn by Lillian, however, as one unexpected fact had nearly rendered her speechless upon greeting the woman. She bore a remarkably strong resemblance to Lavinia. Mary had not seen Lillian in years—since her own ball celebrating her entrance into society, actually—a time when Lavinia Swire had been completely unknown to her. And Lillian Roquefort had been so far from her thoughts by the time that Matthew had introduced them all to his fiancé that Mary had never made the connection. Their resemblance was not so striking as to be frightening, but it was a bit uncanny, enough to give Mary a moment's pause as she so clearly recollected the numerous times that Miss Swire had walked these halls.

An involuntary shiver crawled up her spine.

But there were thankfully vivid differences separating the two women. Lillian was considerably taller than Lavinia and rarely smiled, her dismissive demeanor distinguishing her sharply from her late look-alike. Yet Mary could not help but watch Isobel closely when she was introduced to the duchess, admiring her mother-in-law for the steadiness in her features and ready smile she gave the younger woman even as she was denied one in return. But as Isobel passed by Mary on her way to check on Lady Catherine, she clasped her daughter-in-law's hand wordlessly, an acknowledgement of their kindred observation and loss.

Yes—she had noticed it, as well.

It was a bit difficult to maintain an emotional balance when both the past and the present continued to tug so insistently upon ones heels. Mary could not help but smile softly, envisioning how Matthew would have treated the duchess with utmost politeness here among her family, only to give Mary a secretive eye roll when facing no one else's scrutiny. He would have made obligatory conversation with the duke, doing everything in his power to find some common ground for discussion, although he would have given up on Edward within seconds, she was certain. But Mary knew that Matthew would have subtly sought an exit from their company with utmost politeness and gone in search of a more interesting and friendly companion among this gathering.

He would have sought out Charles Blake.

She slowly digested the irony of that fact, a keen certainty that the two men would have liked each other, could have even become friends had their paths ever crossed, settling deep. The thought warmed her, binding a portion of her uncertainty fast within peaceful confines. And her heart offered up a silent breath of thanks. Charles had been granted the good fortune of conversing with Lord Grantham until her father was drawn away by the duke, presenting him with the opportunity to stare at her for one gloriously unguarded moment. She felt his eyes upon her, her stomach fluttering in remembrance of his tongue's lightest brushstrokes artfully canvassing the pallet of her mouth. She crossed her ankles instinctively, her body vividly recalling the sensation of her limbs turning to putty at his exquisite gentleness. Gooseflesh rippled across her upper torso, her nerves reliving the coaxing and teasing interplay with her lips, relishing his mouth's insistent strumming of chords inside her whose vibrations ran deep.

He had been holding back deliberately—she was certain of it—sensing amidst his tenderness a blistering passion being held purposefully in check. And he did that for her.

Heat began to throb with a subtle insistence, pooling into a quiet ache as she continued to observe him. She noticed his large hands, trails they had traced across her skin blazing vibrantly in remembrance, and she shamelessly began to wander if the snippets of what she had heard of the practice of the sensual arts in India were actually true. He had lived there a good portion of his life, had loved and married an Indian woman, for God's sake. Perhaps he knew…

Mr. Barrow's intrusion into her private musings made her jump, his murmured message that she was needed in the nursery forcing heat that had been pulsing within to retreat to her cheeks. She shot Charles a look of accusation, eliciting a grin from the source of her embarrassment as he knowingly observed her grasp the opportunity to leave the room. How he wished he could follow her out the door.

"You know, it was rather bad form of you to arrive days early and stake your claim so very quickly, Mr. Blake," Edward stated quietly, having snuck to Charles's side unobserved as his attention had been rather distracted. "You might have given the rest of us a fair shot at the prize."

"Excuse me," Charles retorted quickly, hoping in vain that what his mind had registered did not match what his ears actually heard. "Just what are you attempting to say, Mr. Roquefort?"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Blake," Edward returned, tossing him a rather incredulous look. "Surely you must have realized that this entire party was devised to grant those of us sans spouse the opportunity to woo and win Lady Mary."

"Lady Mary is neither a claim to be staked nor a prize to be won," Charles stated firmly, not even taking the time to gaze down upon his unwelcome companion. "She is a lady who has suffered a most grievous loss and is attempting to rebuild a life for herself and her son."

"Oh, please," Edward interjected with a flick of his hand, "She did leave the room, you know. Save those sort of noble speeches for when she is actually in the vicinity and can hear you. It is no wonder that you have made such strides with her if you can speak with such compelling eloquence, Mr. Blake. Well played, sir. Perhaps I should begin taking notes."

"Tell me, Mr. Roquefort, do you treat everyone with an equal amount of disdain, or is this treatment reserved for a lucky few?" Charles questioned, eliciting a begrudging smile from the man he truly wished would dissolve into the floor.

"Very few receive special treatment from me, Mr. Blake," Edward answered evenly, "so I am sorry to inform you that you and Lady Mary are simply experiencing the same delightful personality traits that the rest of society enjoys."

"Even your own sister?" Charles asked pointedly, looking Edward directly in the eye for the first time since their encounter in the small library.

"I am sorry to confess that yes—poor Lillian has to put up with my intelligent conversation on a regular basis," Mr. Roquefort admitted, an exaggerated sigh following his statement for emphasis. "However, I am nothing in the boorish department when compared with my esteemed brother-in-law, Mr. Blake. Trust me—my company is much preferable to his, especially where Lady Mary is concerned."

"I do not want to see you anywhere near Lady Mary, Mr. Roquefort," Charles uttered through clenched teeth, his jaw tightening in emphasis.

"So you can sniff around her unfettered by the rest of the pack?" Edward crooned, raising his brows to a ridiculous height. "Just because you have already picked up her scent doesn't mean that you should be the only one to dig for buried treasure, Mr. Blake."

Hot fury shot through him in an instant, his fists clenching in a nearly futile attempt to keep his rising temper at bay.

"Perhaps you would step outside with me, Mr. Roquefort, where we can continue this discussion away from the presence of ladies?" Charles managed, his pulse throbbing visibly in his temple.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" a calmer voice inquired, grasping Charles's attention at just the right moment.

"Not at all, Mr. Branson," Edward answered smoothly. "Mr. Blake here has just been barking up the wrong tree." He then returned his attention to Charles and gave an exaggerated smile. "I am a toothless dog, you see. All bark—no bite."

"I don't care how many teeth you do or do not possess, Mr. Roquefort," Charles growled quietly, "If you sniff, bark, or even look at Lady Mary in the wrong manner, you shall feel the effects of my bite, and you will not like it, I assure you."

"Oh, but I do like you, Mr. Blake," Edward preened with a flourish. "I can tell already that we are going to be such good friends. However, I am afraid that my sister requires my attention at the moment, if you will kindly excuse me." He turned and walked to the duchess, the sway in his stride doing nothing but provoking Charles even further.

"Steady now," Tom interjected, laying a hand on Charles's bicep with a bit more force than Mary had done earlier. "He's a pompous windbag of a man, that's for certain, but he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"I don't know, Mr. Branson," Charles replied, a modicum of calm returning to his voice. "I am not at all certain that creature is actually a man at all."

Tom chuckled appreciatively, nodding in agreement as he added, "I think you may have a point, there. More like a weasel of some sort."

Charles narrowed his eyes in Edward's direction, observing how Mr. Roquefort's own brother-in-law removed himself from his wife as the louse approached.

"Mary seems to think he is harmless, but I do not like the manner in which he addresses her," Charles stated firmly. "Not at all."

"Mary, now is it?" Tom asked quietly, observing his companion as Charles suddenly realized what had just slipped from his mouth.

"Forgive me, Mr. Branson," Charles began, attempting to right his oversight before Tom cut him off.

"What you and Mary choose to call each other is your own business—not mine," Mr. Branson stated factually. "I've never been much of one for titles and the like, anyway, although it did take me a long time to feel comfortable addressing her as anything but Lady Mary."

Charles smiled appreciatively, looking towards the exit Mary had used moments earlier as he uttered, "She is quite a lady."

"Yes, she is," Tom agreed. "She was also one of the only supporters I had when Sybil announced to her family that we wanted to marry."

"I understand that your courtship was rather unconventional, Mr. Branson," Charles stated, purposefully turning his attention away from Mr. Roquefort to address Tom directly. "I must say that I quite applaud such daring and courage as it must have taken to woo the woman you loved under such circumstances."

Tom stared thoughtfully out the window for a moment, mulling over the correct words before responding.

"I'm really not sure I could have acted any differently, Mr. Blake. I loved her."

The simplicity of the statement struck him, a kindred recognition taking root as Charles replied, "I understand."

Tom drew his brows together in contemplation, shifting his stance a bit before offering, "I was sorry to hear that you also lost your wife, Mr. Blake. I know how hard that is."

"I am certain that you do, Mr. Branson," Charles responded quietly. "And I am sorry for your loss, as well."

"How did you do it?" Tom questioned haltingly, rubbing his chin in thought. "How were you able to move on after losing your wife and your child? I think it would have broken me if I had lost Sybbie, as well as her mother. She was the only thing that kept me going for a while."

Memories of his past wrung his insides mercilessly, muting his speech a fractured moment before Charles was able to answer.

"I was a broken man for some time, Mr. Branson. It's rather miraculous that I am standing here with you now in one piece." Tom nodded his head in understanding, a newly-forged respect forming for the man before him. "And as for how I managed, I'm not sure that I have an answer other than that I kept breathing," Charles stated flatly. "I woke up every morning, whether I wanted to do so or not, so I really had no choice in the matter. I had to survive, somehow."

"It's so unfair, isn't it? All this death associated with the beginning of a new life?" Tom queried, as much to himself as to Charles, who nodded solemnly in response.

"Cherish your daughter, Mr. Branson," he finally spoke, the sting of great loss shooting through him yet again as his eyes canvassed the floor. Tom smiled ruefully.

"I do, Mr. Blake. Believe me." Matters were sealed between them in a brief silence, a new understanding brokered while small talk continued across the room. "Losing Matthew nearly broke Mary, you know," Tom offered quietly, staring out the window. "Her spirit, I mean. I was really worried about her for a long time."

"I'm sure you were a great help to her through her grief," Charles theorized, noting the brotherly affection the man held for his sister-in-law.

"We tried to take care of each other," Tom explained. "As well as our children. I think Sybbie and George have grown up more as siblings than cousins."

Charles smiled at this observation.

"It's good for children not to be alone."

"Or adults either, I guess," Tom continued, sizing up Charles once more. "I wasn't very nice to you last night, I'm afraid, Mr. Blake. I apologize for that."

"You owe me no apology whatsoever, Mr. Branson," Charles quietly insisted. "I am glad that you watch out for Mary so strenuously and attempt to guard her interests."

"I'm not sure just how much she appreciated it, though," Tom mused, pulling a grin from Charles as he shook his head slightly.

"I must admit that I was glad that you were the targeted recipient of those pointed looks last night rather than me," Charles laughed. "Although they have been aimed in my direction from time to time."

"Believe me—they targeted Matthew often enough," Tom remembered, suddenly realizing what he had said. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to…"

"Please, do not feel the need to walk on eggshells with me, Mr. Branson," Charles assured him. "He was her life for so long—the very reason her heart continued to beat. I have no desire to try to erase any part of her past nor to compete with Mr. Crawley's memory. He will always be a part of her, just as my late wife and daughter will always be a part of me."

"You like her, though," Tom began, the rise in his voice allowing for his statement to resemble a question.

"I like her very much," Charles replied without hesitation. "And I shall not deny that I am interested in more than friendship with her. I am just not certain what she is ready for at this stage in her life."

"When you say more than friendship, you do mean that your intentions are honorable, I take it?" Tom questioned, needed to make certain that there was no misunderstanding in this matter.

"Yes, Mr. Branson," Charles assured him quickly. "The very last thing I would want to do is to bring any scandal or difficulty into either Mary's or George's life. They deserve much better than that."

"That they do," Tom agreed, pausing markedly before putting forth his next inquiry. "The two of you met on the train from London—is that right?"

The question caught Charles a bit off-guard, and he hesitated in formulating an answer having assured Mary that he would keep that meeting a secret. "Lady Grantham is quite certain of it," Tom explained, sensing the man's discomfort with his inquiry. "I only ask because something changed in her that day. When she left that morning for London, she was still so desolate. But when she returned…I don't know how to describe it. It's like a light came back on inside of her, something I was very glad to see."

Tom had no idea of just how profoundly his words were swelling inside of the man who was taking them in silently, daring to allow his hopes to rise even as he feared expecting too much.

"All I'm trying to say is that if you are the one who helped her rediscover some of her spirit, then I'm glad for it," Tom concluded, eyeing Mr. Blake with renewed scrutiny. "Just don't crush her again, alright? I'm tired of seeing her hurt so much."

"Mr. Branson, if I hurt her in any fashion, you have my full permission to take me outside and thrash me heartily," Charles returned, eliciting and appreciative grin from the other gentleman. Tom stared at him a moment further, finally extending his hand to the man in peace. Charles accepted the offering, and the men shook hands in mutual respect.

"Listen, Mr. Blake, if you see me get cornered by the duke or any of his family, I ask you to please come to my rescue," Tom grinned, summoning an appreciative chuckle from the other man.

"I shall be happy to do so if you will kindly return the favor. And please, call me Charles. I am not much of one for titles or formalities, either."

They locked eyes before Tom agreed.

"Thank God. Call me Tom, then. Titles do wear me out a bit."

Mr. Barrow reentered the room, this time seeking out Charles with a quiet summons.

"Forgive me, Tom," Charles stated after Thomas left the vicinity. "It seems as though I am needed upstairs. If you will excuse me."

"That's fine," Tom returned, "But if I get stuck talking to Mr. Roquefort, I'll come looking for you later."

Charles chuckled in response, happily making his exit from the room even as he was uncomfortably aware that Edward Roquefort was observing his every move . Charles made his way to the nursery as instructed, perplexed yet eager to learn of the reason behind his most unexpected summons. He knocked upon the door, only to be greeted by a rather frustrated Mary holding a clearly discontent George. The boy threw his arms out towards him as he cried out the word _cat_ , and Charles swept him up, all the while looking to the child's mother for an explanation of this display.

"Come in and shut the door," Mary commanded softly, guiding them back into the room's confines as she stared at him in contemplation. George's cries had stilled somewhat, but something was still clearly antagonizing the lad as he kept pointing in the direction of his mother.

"Do you want your mother, George?" Charles questioned, bouncing the child in an attempt to quiet his distress.

"No, he doesn't," Mary answered for him, taking two steps in their direction. She then held out _The Teddy Bearoplane_ book in Charles's direction, obviously wanting him to take it from her. He did so, looking back to her with a query in his eye.

"He begged for this book at naptime," Mary began. "He picked it up and gave it to Nanny Thompson, even. But he began to scream when she tried to read it to him. So when she attempted to try another book, he pushed himself out of her lap and retrieved this one. However, he blatantly refuses to allow her to read it."

Charles sat with the boy in the rocking chair, still eyeing Mary as she began to pace.

"She sent for me, so I tried to read to him. But he reacted in the same manner, and he kept pointing to the door and saying _cat_."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Charles admitted, noting that the boy's protests had stilled as he opened the book.

"I believe he wants you," Mary stated factually, scrutinizing her son's reaction to Charles as a smile reappeared upon the lad's face. "He associates that book with you now, Charles, and he doesn't want anyone else to read it to him."

"Are you certain about this, Mary?" Charles questioned, clearly perplexed by this line of thinking even as George began to babble as if trying to read the book for himself. "I think you must be mistaken in this matter."

"Oh, really," Mary returned, quirking her expression weightily. "Have you heard him fuss since you sat down with him?"

He had no answer for her.

George once again began repeating the word _cat_ as he repeatedly tapped the book, looking up to Charles with obvious eagerness.

"No, George, bear," Charles corrected good-naturedly, pointing to the teddy bear in emphasis.

"I believe _cat_ is you," Mary corrected, somewhat amused by the utterly confused expression that quickly met hers. "It's George's word for kite, you see. He's calling you _kite_."

The brilliant smile that broke across Charles's face momentarily melted away all frustration she had felt as he turned to her son and laughed.

"Am I kite then, George?" Charles inquired as George continued to repeat his word and point to the book. "I do believe that is the most precious thing I have ever heard in my life, Mary."

Mary just shook her head, stepping in closer as she took up the actual issue.

"He cannot call you kite, Charles, but the problem is that he doesn't know what to call you."

"Mr. Blake is rather a mouthful, isn't it?" he stated to George who looked up at him in confusion. "I am perfectly content with kite, Mary, and so is George. I fail to see a problem here."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Mary mused, shaking her head at the twosome who had quite obviously just outvoted her on this issue. "It's not exactly proper, you know."

"Mary—he's only one year old," Charles argued good-naturedly. "Just how proper does he have to be at this point? Let him be a toddler."

She had no response then, silently observing them happily reading the book as previously unnecessary questions surfaced concerning the bond George was forming with this new man in their lives. She and Charles were well aware of the obstacles they could face, understanding that nothing was certain as they entered this courtship together. But George? He only understood that he had a new friend, a man who played with him, read to him, doted on him as his father should have done. Her son was beginning to revel in this newly-found attention, staking his own claim on Charles in an innocent childish manner. The weight of the fact that she could disappoint George if something went awry pressed upon her, underlining the heightened responsibilities of forming a new relationship while raising a child.

She had thought her relationship with Matthew complicated, but the intricacies of being an unmarried mother were at times unspeakably daunting. Factoring in those concerns along with her own needs as a woman…if she allowed herself to dwell upon them too long, she would give herself a headache. But she could not let it go, this thread of thought that insistently tugged at her hem, forcing her to consider angles of this relationship in a light just illuminated. If things continued to progress between them, if they should eventually marry, she had no doubt that Charles Blake would be a most excellent father to her son.

Mary shook her head slightly, completely taken aback by the fact that she was allowing herself to even consider such possibilities. But she had to—these were necessary considerations for a woman in her circumstances. Logically, she understood with grave certainty that living the rest of her life without a husband would bring difficulties upon her and George that could be curtailed if she were to remarry. Her very being recoiled at the idea of marrying strictly out of duty—that had been her destiny for far too great a portion of her life.

No—if she were to marry again, it would only be to a man of her choice—a man who could make her laugh, who could love her son and understand that no matter how many years might pass, Matthew would always occupy a portion of her soul. She nearly laughed out loud as she realized just how accurate a description she had penned in her mind of the man sitting in front of her, the very irony of it making wonder if a force unseen was orchestrating this chain of events for her very benefit.

_Be happy, Mary._

Dear God—the destination to where her thoughts momentarily led her was absolutely absurd. She did not believe that Matthew had somehow brought this entire scenario together from an unseen world—she was not fanciful enough to allow such thoughts to take root within her. But the very idea of it made her shiver just the same as she continued to try to make sense of her situation.

"You don't have to figure out every detail of our relationship in the next five minutes, Mary," Charles quietly interrupted, pulling her attention back to him and the drowsy boy now rubbing his eyes contentedly as they rocked back and forth.

"It isn't very polite to intrude on someone's private thoughts, you know. Were you taught to read minds in India?" she asked wryly, enjoying the appreciative grin her comment brought forth.

"No—you just think loudly," he returned, finally procuring a smile from her as she continued to stare at him.

"What happens when you leave?" she put forth, her serious expression returning as quickly as it had fled. "When this party is over and you return to your estate in York?"

"I have plans to return and continue courting you, Mary," Charles replied, speaking in a low tone so as not to disturb George as heavy lids finally began to seal shut. "I also hope to invite you and your family to York for visits. It is not that far away."

"I realize that," she breathed, "I meant what happens to George when you're not here to read him that story or take him outside to fly a kite? You have become a sort of fixture here the past few days, and he is beginning to expect that you'll be here for him. You cannot read to him every night from York, no matter how close by it may be."

He pursed his lips in thought, the crease in his dark brow alerting her to the fact that he was taking what she had said seriously.

"I don't know, Mary," he began, still working out details quietly in his head as he addressed her concerns. "I daresay he will adjust admirably. He has rather quickly adapted to my presence—it would just be a new schedule for him to learn. Please know that I shall miss his company dreadfully, as well."

"I know, I—" she cut herself off, not wanting to reveal too much yet fervently needing him to understand her dilemma. "I just don't want him to be disappointed or feel abandoned if, if something…"

Oh, why was this so difficult for her to explain?

"If something should go wrong between us, you mean," he finished for her, watching her keenly to deduce if his words were correct.

"Yes," she admitted shyly, uncertain as to why the ground beneath her feet suddenly felt quite shaky.

Charles looked down upon the boy who rested contentedly upon his lap, realizing the true depth of the questions Mary was courageous enough to lay before him. It wasn't just her heart she worried about guarding from further pain—it was her son's, as well. Although she was a most beautiful and vibrant woman who was exploring the possibility of moving forward with her own life, she was first and foremost a mother.

His respect for her increased exponentially.

He scooped up the sleeping child, carefully moving with him to his crib and laying him down with gentle hands. He stared at him a moment more, watching the beautiful rise and fall of his chest as George settled himself into a new sleeping position. When he returned his gaze to Mary, words nearly deserted him, the very sacredness of what she was sharing with him making him feel horribly inadequate to the task.

"Nothing is certain in this life, Mary," he began haltingly, wanting to be as blatantly honest with her as she would desire him to be. "Not with the circumstances life hands us, anyway. We're given choices that somehow get unmanageably knotted up with feelings, and then we have to decide what to do with them. But their outcome is unfortunately never clear until that portion of our life is over."

_Who knows what is coming?_

Her own words uttered in pain years ago played again through her mind, solidly attesting to the truth of his assertions. What she had believed to be the destination of her own life had been drastically altered one year ago, making her question so many things that she had rarely even considered.

"How I wish I could promise you that everything will work out beautifully and that we shall never have to face any difficulties or nasty surprises along the way," he continued, glancing down to his feet as he strolled slowly in her direction. "I cannot give you false assurances, Mary, no matter how badly I might want to do so. But I do believe that this relationship we have formed has great possibilities for all of us. If I didn't, I wouldn't be standing here with you now."

She digested his words, searching dark eyes that had fastened unwaveringly upon hers before responding with a small grin.

"If I didn't think it had possibilities, I would have left you bleeding under that blasted tree."

He chuckled quietly, drawing her to his chest with one arm as the other stroked her hair. She reveled in the warmth of him, his utter strength held at bay in arms that now encompassed her even as her thoughts continued to churn.

"You're still willing to risk it, aren't you?" she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper."

"To take a chance even though something horrible could happen?"

"Mary—would you give back your time with Matthew to save yourself the heartache of his death?" Charles questioned softly, taking in her surprise at his inquiry as her eyes searched his face.

"No, I wouldn't," she answered firmly. "Absolutely not."

"Neither would I give away my life with Rashmi," he admitted quietly, "not even a day of it, even if I knew what was coming." He exhaled loudly, kissing the top of her head and claiming her hands within his. "Risking much is never easy. But it's taking the risks that matter that make life worth living, don't you think?"

They stood in close silence a moment, broken by his soft chuckle as he grinned down at her in a rather sheepish manner.

"I rather like being called cat, you know," he admitted disarmingly, squeezing something within her to the point of it being painful.

How had he done this to her?

She clung to him in the quiet hush of the nursery, attempting to shove aside the rising panic gripping her as she realized that she was already standing ankle-deep in uncharted waters, that she had already allowed this man to matter to her and her son. At this point, if something were to happen to him, she could not emerge from the experience unscathed--it was too late for that outcome. An attachment had been formed even if its bonds were new and fragile. The question before her now was not whether or not she was willing to take a chance with Charles Blake. No, it had morphed into one with larger ramifications, with higher stakes and more drastic consequences, one she could not yet answer but would have to work out within herself in the near future.

Just how much was she willing to risk with him? And where would it take her?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Robert have a meaningful conversation, and Charles reveals a previously hidden talent.

"Mary, are you quite alright?"

The question drew her back to her immediate surroundings, pulling her from the pool of thought in which she had been immersed as she attempted to right her mindset.

"Yes, Papa," she replied promptly, smiling politely in his direction as she sat up a bit straighter. "I am perfectly well."

"But your thoughts are elsewhere, it would seem," Robert deduced, walking towards his daughter as they enjoyed a few blessed moments away from their rather tiresome guests.

"I am sorry," she admitted, drawing a deep breath. "I admit that I find myself rather distracted with all of the day's excitement. What is it you were saying?"

He looked at his daughter thoughtfully before putting forth, "I was simply expressing my hopes that the arrival of the Gillinghams will improve the atmosphere of this gathering. The duke and duchess as well as Mr. Roquefort are not exactly the most stimulating of guests, I'm afraid."

Mary could not help but roll her eyes in return.

"You are being too kind, Papa. Mr. Roquefort is tedious to the point of being completely annoying and the duke and duchess possess personalities that are nearly as charming as O'Brian's used to be."

Robert chuckled, conceding her point wordlessly.

"At least Lady Catherine and Mr. Blake make for rather good company," he put in, studying her face at the mention of the gentleman who had been occupying so much of her time, not missing the slight hint of color that splashed across her cheeks. "And just where is Mr. Blake at the moment, may I ask?"

Mary glanced up at her father, knowing there was no sensible reason for her to deny that her thoughts had been thoroughly fixated upon the very man of which he spoke. She drew breath and answered honestly.

"He is upstairs with Lady Catherine," she began. "She has expressed the desire to join everyone for dinner this evening, so he and Isobel are trying to determine if that is a wise course of action or not."

"I hope she is able to do so," Robert stated, moving to take a seat across from his eldest. "She seems to be quite an intelligent woman, and her presence would keep your grandmother quite happily occupied at the table."

Mary could not help but smile as she envisioned Mr. Roquefort attempting to best Violet Crawley and the natural consequences of such a fallacy.

"I have a feeling that our rather tiresome guests will be all the whetstone Granny requires in order for her to satisfactorily sharpen her wit."

"I daresay you are right," Robert agreed, "Although just how well they bear up under her scrutiny remains to be seen."

"Perhaps if we are lucky they shall turn tail and decide to flee back to the safe-haven of London before the night is over," Mary returned, her hands beginning to fidget subtly as her thoughts kept indelibly skipping back to stolen moments in the small library, and conversation in the nursery that touched upon feelings stronger than she possibly dared to admit.

Robert leaned back in his seat, understanding with marked certainty that he was approaching risky ground as he considered his next words carefully.

"What do you think of Mr. Blake, Mary?"

Her eyes flew to his, staring resolutely as she debated on just how much to say. How could she possibly begin express to her own father just how Charles Blake somehow drew her towards him as if he had fastened a lasso fixedly around her waist and continually tightened his grip little by little? She smiled to herself as words Lord Grantham had spoken to her years ago emerged from her memories, words encouraging her to dump Richard Carlisle and bring home a cowboy from America to shake them all up a bit.

Mary could not help but wonder if a certain widower who had spent a good portion of his life in Scotland and India would be an acceptable substitute.

Heaven only knew just how much the knowledge that his late wife had been Indian would shake up the inner-workings of Downton. She cleared her throat, noting that her father was quietly awaiting her response.

"I think he is a good man," Mary finally answered, knowing she would have to elaborate in order to appease Lord Grantham. "I like him very much."

Robert nodded slowly, his gaze quite deliberate as he refused to look away from his daughter.

"He obviously likes you very much, Mary, and it would seem as though he gets on quite well with George."

No—she would not have him pushed upon her by any outside sources.

"And just when have you observed the two of them together?" she retorted defensively, the words slipping out of her before she could censor their progress.

"Only at dinner," Robert admitted quietly, "although your mother has described their interactions for me in great detail."

She sighed audibly in frustration.

"And what if I don't want their interactions discussed by every member of the household?" Mary shot back, her spine prickling as the walls protecting her privacy were being breeched. She could hear her son's precious voice proclaiming him _cat_ , reaching out for him, understanding even at his tender age that Charles's arms would welcome him willingly. She envisioned George's bright face smiling up at him, craving the man's attention and presence just as she continually caught herself doing these days. These interactions were precious yet fragile, a new element in her life of which she was uncertain. And she had no desire to discuss them with anyone besides Charles himself.

Robert exhaled loudly, futilely attempting to read this daughter of his who could hide her feelings too well for her own good. That Mary was unsure of what to do at this point seemed evident, but just how deeply she had allowed her interest in this man to take root was completely unknown to him.

"You do realize that your mother and I just want you to be happy?" he questioned, creasing his brow in concentration. "You need not feel any pressure from us to move on with someone else until you are ready to do so."

The sincerity of his voice cut through to the inner-reaches of her soul, delicately slicing through layers of protective assumptions woven to steel herself against deeply-held beliefs that she would never truly live up to the expectations set out for her. Yet her father looked upon her now with the eyes of a man who simply loved her, and the very sweetness of his offering almost bringing forth tears she swallowed to curtail.

"Thank you, Papa," she returned softly, looking down to her hands as she strove to contain this onset of emotion. "I do appreciate that, more than you know."

He stood and walked to her side, sitting down beside her quietly as he spoke words difficult to say.

"I am so very sorry for all you have had to bear in this life, Mary. Perhaps I did not protect you from this world as fiercely as I should have done." She stared at him, stunned momentarily speechless as she swallowed forcefully. "I sometimes still wonder if I should have fought the entail all those years ago," Robert pondered, looking to Mary's face to gage her reaction. "Your mother was rather adamant that I should have been more vocal in the matter and should have sought out every possible angle to overturn it."

A rueful laugh escaped her as she shook her head.

"If you had followed that path, we might never have come to know Matthew as we did," she observed, her eyes suddenly tracing invisible patterns on the floor. She could not imagine her life without the shaping of his hands, the softening of her inner-crevices wrought by the sheer beauty of him. And she would not allow her mind to even entertain the notion of a life without their son, his small life the very pulse that propelled her own heart to continue beating during a year lived in shadows. "And our lives would have been all the emptier."

Her quiet admission spoke deeply to Robert, tightening the ache that still grasped him harshly when he thought of his son-in-law and all that their family had lost at his passing.

"I know that you have not completely healed from losing Matthew, and I'm honestly not sure if one ever completely recovers from such a blow," he admitted quietly, staring off into the distance. "There is not a day that goes by that I do not miss your sister. Sometimes I still catch myself expecting to see her enter the room."

"I know," Mary managed, still unaccustomed to seeing such a vulnerable side of her father. "So do I."

"It would, however, bring me great peace of mind to know that your heart had found happiness again, even though the emotion might feel differently to you after all the weight you have been forced to carry," he continued, reclaiming her eyes as he pursed his lips together in thought.

"I'm beginning to understand that," Mary whispered almost to herself. "Happiness is not always absolute, is it? It can suddenly turn up in some areas of your life while others are still to tender to take it in."

Robert took in his daughter in a manner he had not done so in quite some time. Gone was the arrogant girl who had been engaged to Patrick or the foolish one who had made a life-altering mistake with Mr. Pamuk. Absent was the lady who had dismissed Matthew as not being one of them only to realize too late that she loved him. Yet this was also not the young woman who had become engaged to Richard Carlisle out of the desperation to save her own reputation or even the glorious creature he had walked down the aisle to marry the man she had loved for so long. This Mary was a woman who had walked through the very flames of hell and emerged on the other side still breathing. Her strength suddenly astonished him as a newly found respect for this amazing woman he knew as his daughter welled up within him.

She was utterly dazzling.

"Make sure that whomever you choose, be it Mr. Blake or someone else still unknown, make certain he will watch out for you always," Robert uttered, emotion choking back sound as he cast his eyes downward for a moment. "You deserve to be cared for, Mary. I should hate for you to face the rest of your young life alone."

"Oh, Papa," she finally breathed, a tear stubbornly whisking down from the corner of her eye before she could catch it. He drew her to his shoulder, hugging her to him in a manner he wished he had done more often in his life. They sat in silence, the abiding love shared frequently but spoken of rarely binding them fast for a few sacred moments. Her father, the man whom she had revered and sought to please her entire life had effectively given her his blessing and permission to move forward in any manner she saw fit. He hoped she would marry again, not for the sake of title or position, but for the simple fact that he did not want her to face the world alone.

She suddenly saw her parent's marriage in a new light, their graceful acceptance of each other, the looks of affection that could be caught if one looked in their direction at the right moment, the manner in which they somehow understood just how the other would react to a given situation. They had been granted a lifetime together—one wrought with pain at times, yes, and one that had faced its share of trials along its journey. But they had chosen to love each other, creating a work of art from the skeleton of a marriage brokered out of financial need and duty. Their marriage had been crafted by design, but loving had been their choice. And from the recesses of her being came an unbidden supplication that she would be courageous enough to make the same decision for herself and her son.

* * *

 

She later left the protective confines of her father's embrace and study, stepping into the vastness of her home that seemed surprisingly empty even though she knew its walls were filled with people. Her musings were hijacked as her feet responded to an unexpected bidding, drawn by the sound of a piano that too often sat in disuse. The lush melody was poignant, mirroring her thoughts and emotional state perfectly as its sheer beauty washed over her. She recognized it, but was much too engaged by its hypnotic qualities to mercilessly pillage her memory in search of the exact piece and composer. She found him seated on the bench, playing the haunting tune with a passion that matched his disposition. He did not perform without flaw or hesitation, but it was beautiful, nonetheless, the imperfections somehow making his performance even more precious to her. She hovered in the shadows of the door, unwilling to interrupt him as she continually learned of his inner-workings expressed upon the keys of the piano.

She had known Charles could sing, his humming to George in the nursery having solidified that fact in her mind days ago. But Mary had never imagined that he would play an instrument, although she should have deduced such a fact given that he had been brought up at a school for girls where instruction in music would have been commonplace. Had Lady Catherine sensed this ability in him and encouraged him to take lessons, or had she just insisted that it would be good for him to learn to play whether he chose to do so or not?

Mary dared to imagine Charles Blake as a boy, smiling to herself as she could all too vividly envision an impish grin that would broker no refusal, a sparkle in those brown eyes that would somehow free him of many consequences he had most likely deserved. He would have most certainly been an inquisitive child, exploring the world around his with a curiosity that would more than likely get him into some rather sticky situations. Just how had his aunt explained to him that he had been unwanted by his parents, she suddenly wondered? The thought again pierced her, shaking her head at the utter waste that could have been his life had Catherine Blake not taken it upon herself to raise him as her own.

How old had he been when she finally told him the truth? Had she attempted to soften the blow at all, or had forthright honesty always been her manner?

"You're thinking loudly again, Mary Crawley," she heard him say, looking up from her private musings to see him smiling at her endearingly.

"How could you have possibly heard my thoughts while you were playing the piano," she questioned with a tease in her voice. "I could barely make them out myself, you know."

"Ah, but they resound so clearly in my ears," he returned, gesturing for her to enter the room. She walked steadily to the piano, taking the offered position beside him on the bench on which he slid over quickly to accommodate her.

"Was it Chopin?" she questioned, her glance moving back and forth between his eyes and long fingers, wonderfully crafted just for this ability it would seem.

"Rachmaninoff, actually," he replied, taking up the melody again softly as she marveled at the movement of his hands over the keys. "Concerto number 2, second movement—one of my very favorites, actually."

"You play it very well," she noted, her brow attesting to her assertions as she continued to study his movements.

"I believe it would be highly more accurate to say that I butcher it rather well, I'm afraid," he argued good-naturedly, grinning at the sudden affront on her face.

"If you think your playing sounds butchered, I pray you never hear mine," she mused. "I'm rather ghastly."

"It's good that you can admit to it, Mary," he quipped, feigning a serious expression rather badly as he added, "After all, admitting one's shortcomings is quite a big step." She nudged him wordlessly, procuring a chuckle as she shot him a pointed look. "Well, you did tell me earlier that flattery would get me nowhere," he added playfully, his dimples appearing at the flicker in her eyes as her stare intensified.

"Neither will insulting me, I'm afraid," she returned with a smirk on her lips that dared him to kiss her.

"I honestly cannot imagine that you are ghastly at anything, Mary," he admitted with a shrug, bringing a slight blush to her cheeks at the compliment.

"I am rather ghastly in the mornings," she sighed, tardily aware of the possible implications of the words that had just flown out of her mouth. He grinned at the widening of her eyes, removing his hands from the piano to dare a gentle stroke down the side of her face.

"But quite beautiful, all the same," he breathed, wrapping a wayward strand of hair loosely around his fingertip.

"And just how would you know?" she inquired, pushing helplessly against a rather lovely fog settling upon her thoughts as his finger grazed her neck.

"Remember, I have seen you in the wee hours of the morning," he explained, grinning to appease the flicker of shock upon her face.

"Yes—tending to a sick child," she hastened to put in for her own defense. "It's a wonder you survived that encounter at all."

All teasing vanished from his features as he stared at her with aching honesty.

"That night is a memory I shall cherish always."

The fluttering of her heart at his statement was enormously distracting, bringing forth the same ache that had overwhelmed her earlier in the nursery. The uncertainty of their situation still unnerved her, pushing her eyes from his back to the relative safety of the keys. The power he had come to hold over her was daunting, making her wonder why she wasn't fighting any harder to break away from it. But the answer to that question was absurdly simple, even though a portion of her still rebelled against its veracity: She wanted to give in to him, in spite of the fears that still clutched at her.

"Who taught you to play?" she managed, husky emotion weighing down her voice as she continued to avoid his direct gaze. "The piano, I mean."

"Well, I must admit that I began as a self-taught pupil," he offered, shrugging slightly as he resumed the tune that had beckoned her. "I would sit in the hall and spy on Mildred Shaughnessy's piano lessons."

"Mildred Shaughnessy?" Mary questioned, raising her eyes back to his.

"A girl with whom I was quite infatuated at the ripe old age of seven," Charles explained, happy to see a slight persistent tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I would purposely position myself outside of Miss McElroy's piano studio every Thursday when Mildred would receive her weekly instruction."

"I take it that Miss McElroy was the music instructor," Mary intervened, receiving a quick nod in answer to her inquiry.

"Quite right, although Miss McElroy did not concern me at all at the time, I admit," he continued, the somewhat exaggerated tone of his answer making her shake her head at him.

"You were all eyes for Mildred Shaughnessy, I take it?" Mary prodded.

"I followed her around like a besotted puppy, I'm afraid," he admitted. "I am sad to report that she hardly even recognized my existence. Of course, she was thirteen at the time, and the age difference between us was just a bit much for us to overcome."

"That's what you get for pursuing an older woman," she teased. "I hear such relationships rarely work out in the long run."

"Well, this one never stood the slightest chance," he sighed dramatically. "But I did start to find the instruction that Mildred received each week quite interesting. So I began to sneak into one of the practice rooms and try my own had at the piano."

"Surely you received some proper instruction at some point," Mary asserted, unwilling to believe that the skills she had witnessed were entirely self-taught.

"I did, actually," Charles confirmed. "Another one of the teachers caught me practicing in secret and quickly went to fetch Miss McElroy. Once she learned what I had done, she insisted to my aunt that I must be given formal instruction, and I began my weekly lessons the following afternoon."

"So you were a natural?" she asked, still rather in awe of the delicate strokes that seem to be magically applied to the keys.

"Not really," he replied, turning his head to face her directly as the tune halted once more. "I would say rather that I was lonely at times growing up, and the piano became my best friend."

The statement took her aback, squeezing her heart as she envisioned him in his own words…a lonely little boy.

"It is alright, Mary, I did have a good childhood, I assure you," he added. "There just weren't very many boys with whom to play or interact, and Aunt Catherine was both running a school and trying to raise a child alone. So I often took refuge with the piano. It was always available when I needed it."

She remained silent while his confession spilled over her, understanding in a different manner as she recollected all of the times she felt completely alone among her own family. Her hand came to rest quietly upon his, even as her eyes fixated themselves upon the piano keys.

"I read," she began quietly, "under the tree where you found me that morning."

"It's a special place for you, then?" he guessed, receiving a small nod in affirmation.

"A refuge, actually, when I needed to escape the confines of my life," she admitted, knowing emphatically that he would understand.

"Did it become a special place for you and Matthew, as well?" he asked, the deep tone of his voice underlying the fact that he understood this to be a very personal question.

"Yes, it did," she answered, her memories drifting to more moments than which she could possibly speak, times of lively discussion, honest admissions, or just quiet companionship.

"Thank you for sharing it with me," he voiced, drawing her back to him even as the she could nearly sense the rustling of the leaves over her head. "You did not have to do that, you know."

She simply nodded, his hand gently tightening around hers. It was just enough.

"I rather enjoy hearing you play," she offered, smiling slightly before she turned her brow on him in a question. "Is your aunt musical? You must have gotten the ability from somewhere."

He laughed in response.

"Hardly. It had never occurred to her to have me take lessons because she always swore that she had a tin ear."

"Perhaps it came from your mother's side of the family?" she queried, looking to him to gage his reaction concerning the one person in his life of whom she had never heard him utter a word. His entire body seemed to still, as if time had stopped momentarily in the immediate vicinity of the instrument at which they sat.

"I would have no way of knowing that."

Mary started at the flat tone in his voice, leaning closer to examine his features more thoroughly to ensure that he was in fact alright.

"Do you know so little of her?" she dared, pushing forward slightly even as she sensed his discomfort. "Did your father never share any details about her with you?"

"Do we really have to discuss her, Mary?" Charles asked, taking her rather aback as he had never denied her access to any topic of discussion. He looked rather sheepish after the slight outburst, eyes suddenly vulnerable as they sought her forgiveness. "I'm sorry, Mary. It's just that I never speak of my mother. I have nothing whatsoever to say about her, I'm afraid."

"That is understandable," she ventured, her concern for him quite vividly written across her features. "But have you never been curious about her?"

He exhaled loudly, raking long fingers through thick hair as he shook his head.

"Of course I was, I mean, what child would not want to know more of his mother?" he returned, the slight twitch in his cheek alerting her to the difficulty of what she was asking him to divulge. "But as I grew older and began to understand the choice she made, the pain began to outweigh the curiosity." He turned towards her, as much as the small bench on which they sat would allow him. "If she had been unmarried, or a victim who had suffered an incident such as you and Aunt Catherine had done, I could understand her decision…truly." He spread his hands before her, imploring her to understand his reasoning. "But she had a husband…a position and means, you understand. There was no reason why she had to give me away. She just did not want to assume the responsibilities of raising a child."

She sensed the utter brokenness left behind by a woman long dead, a woman who had been so absorbed by her own life that she had discarded the most precious gift she could have ever been granted. She had crushed a portion of her own blood in the aftermath, leaving with him the need to battle a legacy of self-doubt Mary began to understand had never been truly erased. An image unbidden of a boy dressed in the garb of a knight wielding his sword towards the onslaught of difficulties thrust his way pressed into her consciousness, forcing Mary to attempt to curtail the instinct to draw the man before her into the confines of her arms and soothe away his pain.

"It had nothing to do with you, you understand," she insisted quietly, clasping his hands within the steady grip of her own. "The problem was hers, not yours. She knew nothing of you, not who you were or would grow up to become. She did this out of her own selfishness, not because of any flaw in your character, Charles."

One dimple peeked out at her as a solitary corner of his mouth turned up in a smile, the other side remaining unmoved.

"I do realize it now, as an adult, but it took me a lifetime to reach that conclusion." He squeezed her hands slightly, raising one to his lips for a small kiss, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "When Rashmi and I were having such difficulty conceiving a baby, I would get so angry at times, thinking of how she and my father gave away a child so readily when we would have given anything to have one of our own."

The boy knight had grown into a man, yet the struggle of his quest still marked him. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks that even though George would have to learn to accept the death of his father, at least that tragedy had not occur as a result of anyone's choosing. His arrival into this world had been most eagerly wanted and anticipated by both parents. And his very existence had unwittingly become life's greatest solace for his mother.

"I watch you with George, and I am overcome with respect for you," Charles continued quietly, suddenly unable to meet her direct gaze as he swallowed forcibly. "You are raising him so incredibly well on your own, even when facing such seemingly insurmountable obstacles and difficulties. You remind me very much of my aunt in many ways—your spirit, your refusal to back away from a difficult life and your decision to face the elements with such dignity."

It was she who could not seem to formulate any words that would be adequate, her lashes fluttering in a bit of confusion as she shook her head.

"I'm not at all sure that I am deserving of such praise, Charles," she finally verbalized, entreating his eyes back to hers.

"I am quite certain of it," he returned, her emotions once again being tugged unrelentingly in a direction that still frightened her.

"Your mother would have regretted her decision if she could have seen the man you have become," Mary put in, laying her palm upon the cheek that had not smiled, the whisper of her thumb just above his eyebrow melting away any resistance he had remaining when it came to her. He laid his hand atop hers, tenderly drawing it from the side of his face towards his mouth. She held her palm open before him, the kiss he placed upon it pushing deeper within her than any they had yet shared.

"I do not deserve you, you know," he breathed, his uncertainty pulling her even more firmly in his direction.

"Don't say such things," she insisted, the timbre of her voice rising at her declaration. "If you keep speaking in such a manner, I shall have no choice but to take you back to that tree for a thorough thrashing."

A small chuckle emerged, making him inhale deeply as if filling his lungs with air for the first time in hours.

"I don't know about that, Mary," he quipped as blithely as he could. "That beast has already had a taste of me. Things could get rather ugly this time, I'm afraid."

"Then you had best adhere to my advice," she returned, raising a brow in his direction, "lest you suffer even further consequences."

"Do you have any idea just how badly I want to kiss you right now?"

His question was no more than a rough whisper, the texture of his voice sparking a flame that made her shiver.

"Then I suggest we shut the door," she returned, barely recognizing the whiskey-laced timbre of her own speech. Mary rose with him, following the hand he took as they threaded their way to the entrance Charles intended to bar from any intrusion. He closed it decisively, taking her by surprise as she was gently pressed up against its surface. This unexpected entrapment was thrilling, yet it allowed her no recourse other than to await the descent of his lips that hovered so near. A slight quivering at the base of her spine tightened her senses, anticipation beginning to warm places of which she dared not speak.

"Mary," he whispered, his brief suspension above her igniting a brush fire. She had suddenly had enough of waiting.

Mary took matters into her own hands, pulling his mouth rather firmly down to her own in a move which surprised even herself. She nearly laughed at the absolute release it brought, reveling in this small act of dominance as she tasted his lips at her own leisure. It was freeing and slightly wicked—this physical rush spurring her forward. She felt a small shudder rock him, ever nerve inside her clamoring for more as the knowledge that she was not the only one bound by this web they had woven sped throughout her frame. She drew back the width of a whisper, biting her own lip teasingly as she tossed him an undeniable challenge masked as a smile.

His response was instantaneous.

Burning lips took liberties only hinted at before as they possessed her mouth, giving her no recourse but to moan her approval. Every cavity was explored, the very depths of her probed masterfully until reason deserted her. Desperate arms clasped him firmly, one tangling itself in his hair while the other roamed downwards to his upper back, effectively bringing their bodies into a closer contact than they had ever before shared. The softness of her pressed against him was almost more than he could stand, threatening to snap any remaining cords of sanity as he held her fast. His mouth left hers, the need to taste her skin suddenly overpowering as he drew a hungry trail slowly down her neck. Her head flew back in response, offering him an unhindered journey of which his lips took full advantage.

She was falling now, her season of hibernation at a decisive end as an ache morphed into a drive that demanded his lips upon her own. She sought them out deliberately, her insistence brokering no refusal on his part as his mouth pillaged hers deliciously. He somehow pulled her in even closer, her breasts hardening in response to the directness of his body and the insistence of his kiss. This was utter madness, a dance on the ledge of an abyss that effectively promised to mute the harshness of her life. How was it that she suddenly could not get enough of this—of him—when things were still so new and uncertain? She could all too easily lose herself completely in this man, the temptation to plunge ahead attempting to kidnap her sanity. But losing control was dangerous. And she knew better.

Heady sensations racing unhindered rebelled loudly at the unwelcome re-emergence of her reason, even as it stood upon wobbly legs.

"Charles," she breathed, drawing back slightly to hold his face within shaky hands. "We must keep in mind that guests will be arriving at any moment."

Mary hated speaking the words even as they left her, staring up at him as she waited for his eyes to reopen. The rich darkness that focused upon her when they did nearly made her lose her footing, the pulse in her neck screaming for the return of his lips upon this terrain that now felt woefully abandoned.

"I'm beginning to hate the thoughts of this house party as much as you do," he whispered throatily, the breath of a laugh escaping her and brushing his skin in response.

"At least the door is closed," she murmured slyly, unwilling to let go of him just yet.

"A fact which does not necessarily mean much in this house, I'm afraid," he quipped, actually making her giggle slightly in earnest as her head bobbed down to his shoulder.

"I must go, you know," she finally stated, turning her hands to his lapels in an attempt to straighten any damage she might have unwittingly wrought upon them. "I need to see to my hair again as I fear it may now be in quite a state, thanks to you."

"I'm happy to oblige with your hair at any time," he grinned, his face once again seeming so boyish in nature it drew her forth to kiss his cheek in parting. Why was it so difficult to leave him when she knew fully well that their next meeting would occur in a matter of minutes? Madness, indeed.

"Debussy next time?" she queried quietly before daring to open the door.

Charles stared at her, the slight mussing of her hair brought about by his own hands nearly undoing his resolve to remain a gentleman. Good God—she stood in full command of him without even realizing the absolute power she held in her grasp. And at that moment, he knew unflinchingly that he would give her anything in the world she might ask of him.

"Clair de Lune?" he offered, gratified to see the smile that reached her eyes as she nodded her approval of his selection.

"I shall look forward to it," she replied, gazing at him in a manner that humbled him to his very roots. The room felt colder once she left its confines, leaving in her wake a man who returned to the piano bench, sitting in response to the immense weight of a fact no longer disputable.

He loved her.

How it had come upon him so quickly, he dared not reason out. He had not had the courage to admit to her that the notes she heard him play just minutes ago were the first he had attempted since his life had been torn to shreds and thrown at his feet. He had been unable to hear the graceful lilt of melodies after Rashmi and Rashmika had died, his ear suddenly deaf to the music that had been his life-line since childhood. Fighting and drinking had become his outlets after being robbed of it, and even when he had begun to piece back together the shards of his soul, the music had been too personal to allow back into his life. His fingers still felt the rust of disuse, but as he took up the impressionistic melody upon pliable keys, the image of Mary bathed in moonlight colored every note he played. Each phrase was crafted in her image, the ebb and flow of dynamics attesting to the interplay of passions he knew were welling up within them both in this newness of discovery. She had somehow become his opus, the song caged within him now free to sing as it had not been able to do in five years.

He worked out fears over failing her upon the black and white, pouring forth the ever-present need to prove to parents no longer living that they had been mistaken in letting him go into each note. The instrument again spoke words that were sometimes too difficult for him to utter, freeing him to think through his own situation with a renewed mind. Tom Branson's declaration played back in his memory, the truth of it resounding as a delicate ostinato.

He loved Mary, and that left him little choice in how he acted towards her.

He would continue to woo this woman as best as he could, to assure her that he would not leave her even as she worked out her own doubts and misgivings concerning their relationship. He would attempt not to rush her, to allow Mary to set the tempo of this waltz they now danced even as the music drew them steadily closer. He at least reached the final cadence of the piece, Debussy's genius coming to a conclusion even as his own uncertain journey with this woman was just beginning. Charles looked to the open door, his eyes tracing the path she had walked moments ago as he recalled Mary's smile before she left, storing into his hidden enclave of memories before it had the ability to leave him. And as he sat immobile on the bench, he finally allowed himself to hope beyond reason that perhaps her heart might one day allow him to call her his own. Then he rested his head heavily upon his hands, steeling himself against the realization of just how devastatingly unprepared he would be if she completely denied him that right. 


	18. Chapter 18

"Thank God for the Blakes and the Gillinghams."

Mary's attention was drawn quickly back to her grandmother who was standing in close enough proximity to speak freely, her sentence undetected by anyone else as they all waited to go through to dinner. Her granddaughter's queried expression prompted Violet to expound.

"I should have never allowed your mother to get her fingers on the guest list. Americans are simply quite incapable of truly appreciating the nuances necessary to balance such a party."

"I thought the two of you collaborated on the list, Granny," Mary observed, dividing her attention between her grandmother's words and a certain gentleman who stood across from her making conversation with Anthony Gillingham. A certain gentlemen she wished were standing in closer proximity than would be advisable when they were trapped within the confines of mixed company. '

"We did," Violet returned promptly. "I included the Blakes and the Gillinghams."

Mary could not help but quietly smile, scanning the room to see just what unfortunate soul had been left to converse with Edward Roquefort. Oh, dear…her poor father. Their final guests' arrival had indeed been a welcome boost to the party, the elder Lord Gillingham's affable nature immediately setting her mother at ease as a subtle modicum of relief washed across the household. Anthony had grown into quite the dashing figure, Mary observed, although he remained resolutely quiet in the midst of his talkative relatives. Emily was as outgoing as her older brother was politely reclusive, her bubbly nature and ready laugh wearing a bit on Violet even as it charmed Isobel who stood conversing with the young woman now.

Mary felt badly for Lady Catherine who had somehow received the unfortunate assignment of speaking with the Duchess of Hartsford. Yet even as the younger woman remained quietly imposing, Charles's aunt appeared to be quite engaged in conversation, the turn of her countenance alerting Mary to the fact that she was observing more of the duchess than Lillian would ever realize.

"So the difficult guests were Mama's doing?" Mary put forth, knowing her grandmother would take no responsibility for their inclusion. Charles caught her eye just then, the private flash of his dimples warming her cheeks at a most inconvenient moment.

"Most definitely," Violet replied, leaning forward on her stick as she followed the path of Mary's gaze. "Oh, do stop ogling Mr. Blake in such a manner, Mary. You'll give too much away too soon."

She dropped her lashes, her body remembering in vivid detail the interplay of hands and mouths that now teasingly heated her already flushed skin in a rather ill-timed response. Too much, indeed.

"Please don't tell me that you have kissed him already," her grandmother continued, shocking Mary out of her own thoughts as rounded eyes confessed unwittingly. "Oh, dear," Violet observed, leaning in closer so she could effectively whisper in Mary's ear. "The two of you haven't taken any further liberties yet, I take it?"

"Granny!" Mary breathed, feeling as if she had entered into a surreal environment. She had never even dreamt of discussing such things with her grandmother, especially as other people continued to converse innocently around them.

"Oh, don't looked so astonished, Mary," the Dowager Countess insisted. "You are a widow now, and we both understand that the rules are somewhat different." 'She opened her mouth in an attempt to defend herself, yet no speech seemed capable of emerging as she exhaled rather forcibly. "For heaven's sake, there's no need to act affronted," Violet instructed quietly. "You are a fully-grown woman and a mother. I see no reason to dance around such issues as if you were still a debutante, do you?"

"Of course not," Mary managed, carefully averting her eyes from the man who had so delicately sampled her neck just moments ago. "But I can assure you that nothing untoward has taken place between us."

"Are you telling me that you have done no more than peck his cheek and he nothing more than kiss your hand?" Violet questioned, the clear disbelief at these assertions glowering at her granddaughter. Mary's eyes dropped to her feet, her hands clasping each other in refusal to fidget under her grandmother's scrutiny. "I thought not," The Dowager Countess stated, leaning in even closer to Mary. "Once certain delights have been partaken, it is rather difficult to hold back, even for those of us with the strongest of fortitudes. Besides, I have always suspected that you inherited my passionate nature"

Had she understood her grandmother correctly? The smug countenance Violet Crawley wore with aplomb convinced her unwaveringly that she had.

"We haven't progressed that far, Granny," Mary insisted. "Do give me some credit."

"Oh, I do, Mary," Violet put in. "I give you a great deal. But he is a rather fine figure of a man, and you are a most attractive woman who has just come through a rather lonely year. Do not underestimate the temptation that such a heady brew can conjure up between two people, even ones of good breeding."

Dear God—did she know? The suspicion struck Mary with force, making her wonder if either Mr. Roquefort or Isobel had spoken to anyone of their private interludes interrupted. Of course, what Isobel had observed had been far more scandalous that the embrace Edward had witnessed. But Mary could not imagine that Isobel would willingly give them away to anyone—even Violet Crawley. That quite feasibly cast Edward Roquefort in the role of informant, a title Mary deduced he could uphold and relish. Yet he also seemed to be a man who reveled in secrets—who would keep what he knew close to his chest in case he had use of it at a later time. Had there been a servant who had observed or heard something of which neither Mary nor Charles were aware? The thought left a cold hollow in the pit of her stomach.

"I don't underestimate it, Granny," she sighed, daring a quick look into her grandmother's eyes in order to assure her of this fact. "I am well-aware of just how dangerous an elixir it can be."

Violet stood speechless a moment, sizing up her granddaughter's words and stance before offering her final instructions.

"Just watch yourself, my dear. Turning propriety on its ear may seem quite exciting, but it always has its consequences. Make certain you're ready to accept them before you let your sensibilities run away with you."

Charles turned his attention back to her, flashing her an inquiring glance as he continued to converse with Anthony. She attempted to grant him a small nod of reassurance in response, although her thoughts were racing at a rather alarming rate.

"Although, my dear, if I were forty years younger, I might give you a run for your money for that one." Violet was smiling at her own comment, her eyes twinkling towards Charles in a mischievous manner that suddenly made Mary think of Sybil.

"I daresay you would," Mary returned, tossing her grandmother a glance that sealed matters between them, for the moment, at least.

"This conversation stays between us, you understand," Violet whispered, squeezing Mary's elbow gently before smiling over at Lady Catherine. "If you tell anyone about it, I shall deny it most vehemently."

Dinner was announced before she could formulate a response. Mary found herself seated between Charles and the duke, warmed decidedly in the proximity of one while the other inexplicably raised her hackles. Violet drew up her brows in her granddaughter's direction from across the table, forcing Mary to examine her napkin in detail as her grandmother's implications continued to swirl in her head. Had she merely been guessing? Had someone actually informed her of their questionable activities? Or was Mary truly being that obvious when she was around the man? If the latter were true, she would have to watch herself this evening.

Edward Roquefort then took his seat beside her grandmother, forcing her to stifle a laugh of appreciation. She tossed an inquisitive glance at her mother, Lady Grantham widening her eyes in an effective confirmation of exactly what Mary had deduced: the seating arrangement had been deliberately altered not long after Mr. Roquefort's arrival. A surge of admiration for her mother raced rapidly through her veins.

"Lord Gillingham," Cora began, I understand that the three of you just returned from an extended holiday in Italy."

"Oh, yes," the gentleman confirmed with a smile. "We had a most diverting time, I assure you. I have been wanting to take Emily for some time, you understand. She has never had the opportunity to travel that far south, and Venice was always one of my wife's favorite destinations."

"I take it that Lady Gillingham liked water," Violet chirped in, the slight movement in Charles's shoulders notifying Mary that he was well-prepared to appreciate her grandmother's acerbic observations. 

"She adored looking out upon it and venturing out on a gondola," Lord Gillingham returned, "But she could not swim if her life depended on it."

"I can empathize," Lady Catherine noted before sipping her wine. "There is nothing I find more peaceful that gazing out upon a lake or the sea, but I don't dare set a foot in it. I would sink like the proverbial rock."

"And she nearly did, once," Charles added, "on a trip to Loch Ness many years ago."

"Oh dear, what happened?" Isobel inquired, eyeing Lady Catherine in interest.

"Well, Charles and I ventured up there for a holiday," the older woman began. "Another visitor was standing beside us on shore. He swore that he saw the infamous monster lurking nearby, so Charles immediately jumped into the water to try and catch it."

"I was eleven years old at the time," Charles intervened, smiling at his aunt good-naturedly.

"Of course, I went in after him, but he could swim, and I could not. So Charles and the man who started the whole mess ended up saving me from the murky depths rather than the other way around."

Lady Catherine's eyes glimmered in remembrance, allowing Mary to envision the scene she had just described. She wondered just how tall Charles had been at that age, if he had been gangly or of a stockier build. She could easily imagine that he would have been just brazen enough to believe that he could actually swim out to the legendary creature, probably without any idea of what he would do if he actually found the beast. The young knight had been a hunter of sea-monsters at an early age, it would seem. Her eyes fluttered shut, her heart burning in remembrance of a conversation that had taken place at this very table a lifetime ago. How they had danced around each other, evading what was right before them for longer than either of them would stubbornly admit as they bantered about heroes and damsels in distress? How much more time would she have enjoyed with Matthew if she had been daring enough to jump in head-first with him instead of remaining upon the shore continually testing the waters?

"The Loch Ness Monster-how very thrilling!" Emily exclaimed, pulling Mary back into the present as her young face beamed in anticipation. "Did you actually see the beast?"

"Alas, no," Charles returned. "The creature submerged just in time to avoid our detection, I'm afraid."

"Be glad of it," Tom injected with a grin. "If that monster had actually been a kelpie, you wouldn't be sitting here today."

"I would wager that you are rather well-versed in the folk-tales of the kelpie, being an Irishman, Mr. Branson," Lord Gillingham observed. "I grew up with an Irish nanny who would tell us such stories of that creature that I was afraid to go near the water as a young boy."

"I'm still a bit wary of it, to tell the truth," Tom grinned. "A cousin of mine swore he saw one disappear into the river near his house one evening. I refused to venture too near its banks again until I was a grown man."

"I don't blame you, Mr. Branson," Lady Catherine chimed in. "Legends have a way of capturing our imaginations and fancies so that it is difficult to discern the truth from a well-crafted myth. Humans have always held a rather deep-rooted respect of rivers and oceans as their power is so far beyond our own. These fears are so often expressed in stories crafted to explain what we do not understand."

"Wouldst thou,—so the helmsman answered, learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers comprehend its mystery," Charles quoted, capturing Emily's attention immediately.

"Is that Tennyson?" the young woman inquired eagerly, reminding Mary acutely of the book of poetry sitting expectantly on her bedside table.

"Longfellow," Charles corrected. "The Secret of the Sea. A rather lovely verse in my opinion."

"If you like that sort of thing," Edward cut in. "I personally cannot abide the water. It is so uncomfortably wet. Pity it takes up so much of the planet."

"Yes, it is a rather depressing thought seeing that it sustains all forms of life, isn't it?" Charles retorted, receiving a soft kick from under the table.

"I suppose there is no getting around that, is there?" Edward crooned dramatically. "It just always seems so inconveniently placed to me."

"So you prefer the desert, then, Mr. Roquefort?" Violet inquired. "I understand the Sahara can be quite a lovely destination this time of year. Perhaps you should plan a visit."

Mary's brow silently saluted her grandmother as the first course was served.

"Do you swim, Mary?" Charles whispered, leaning over subtly as to not interrupt the flow of conversation around them.

"Yes, but not very often, I'm afraid," Mary admitted, taking a sip of her wine.

"There is a most lovely lake just bordering my estate," Charles offered, the implication of his statement quite clear. "I believe you might find it quite to your liking."

She tossed him a glance from underneath her lashes.

"Is that an invitation?"

"What do you think?" he queried with a grin.

"Don't you think it is a bit cold this time of year for swimming?" she put forth, careful to keep her gaze circulating around the table so as to not draw attention to their private discourse.

"That is strictly a matter of opinion," he replied, the subtle challenge in his answer not lost upon her. "I find the water quite invigorating."

"And free of kelpies, I should hope," she mused, enjoying the grin he granted her in response.

"I have yet to encounter one," he returned, "and I have ventured out rather far."

Images of him swimming in the lake ran rampant through her mind, making her wonder momentarily what exactly he wore when swimming on the privacy of his estate. If he wore anything at all...

"Wouldn't you agree, Mary?" Her mother was looking at her in anticipation as delayed embarrassment washed through her. Her expression must have given her away, Robert coming quickly to her rescue.

"I do seem to remember you telling me once that you found exploring Rome rather interesting."

"Yes," she returned quickly, jumping with alacrity on to this lifeline tossed to her by her father. "Rome is a most fascinating city to explore, although I must admit to a personal preference for Florence."

"I am distraught over the fact that we were unable to visit Florence on this excursion," Emily replied, her green eyes bouncing in perfect time with her ebony curls. "But Papa has promised that he will take me there one day soon. I so adored Italy!"

"My sister was rather taken by the Trevi Fountain," Anthony spoke, drawing everyone's full attention. "She managed to accost me of the vast majority of my coins to ensure that she would return one day."

"Oh, it is the most exciting legend," Emily interjected, leaning forward in her excitement. "Are you familiar with it, Lady Mary?"

"I believe so," Mary replied, searching her memory. "If you toss a coin into the fountain over your shoulder, it will ensure that you shall return to Rome one day. Is that the one to which you are referring?"

"The precise one," Emily gushed. "Only it must be your left shoulder—the details are quite important. It is rather amazing to see all of the coinage laying in the bottom of the pool. Just think of how many dreams they represent?"

"Or how many fools are parted from their money," the duke stated cooly, the utter lack if inflection in his tone chilling Mary's arms instantly.

"Have you visited Rome, your grace," Robert asked politely.

"On several occasions, I'm afraid," the duke replied. "It was not to my taste at all. The people were loud, the food was rather messy, and there was music wherever you ventured…no peace and quiet to be had anywhere."

"Music wherever you venture," Charles uttered with a purposefully straight face. "How utterly ghastly."

"You must always be on your guard, you know, what with all of the street urchins and gypsies roaming about freely," the duke continued, the slight sneer curling his upper lip making Mary inch her chair slightly in Charles's direction. "They will rob you blind in a moment."

"Yes, it is quite lovely to not have to worry about thievery of any sort in England, isn't it?" Anthony verbalized, the quietness of his tone almost masking his sarcasm. "We are quite blessed to live in a country with a perfect populace."

Charles offered Anthony a quiet toast, Mary grinning slightly at the exchange.

"A perfect populace?" Violet restated, drawing up her eyebrows dramatically. "Well, I daresay it's a rather good thing that you never met a particular aunt of mine. She would change your tune on that matter rather decidedly, I think."

"And how did you find Rome, your grace?" Lady Catherine inquired quietly, forcing the woman seated across from her to actually meet her eyes.

"Hot," the duchess replied, immediately returning her full attention to her plate.

"Well, I am certain it could not hold a candle to the Sahara in that area," Violet interjected, giving the duchess a pointed smile that could not be missed.

"I am not at all certain that Sahara would be preferable to Italy," Edward preened lazily. "All of that sand could bring about chaffing in rather unfortunate places, I daresay."

"Edward, please," his sister implored, her teeth clenching the words tightly.

"Oh, it's alright, dear," Violet returned with a smile. "I am certain your brother can wax most eloquently on rather uncomfortable topics for hours upon end. He seems rather gifted in that area."

Mary had to cover her mouth with her napkin in order to stifle her smile.

"Is it true that you lived in India, Mr. Blake?" Emily asked, clearly dismissing Edward for the time being. "I would guess that it is a most fascinating land."

"It is true, Lady Emily," Charles replied, "I lived there for several years. And it is a most interesting country, if I do say so myself."

"But the food," Edward sneered. "I hear it is so spicy that it can literally singe the taste buds off of the tongue any decent Englishman." He then leaned forward, donning a frightfully innocent expression as he inquired, "Tell me, Mr. Blake, is your tongue still in fine working order? I am certain that there would be several people who would be quite disappointed if it weren't."

Charles felt Mary's fingers grasp his leg firmly under the table, instructing him decisively not to turn this comment into an issue.

"I can assure you, Mr. Roquefort, that the rich cuisine in India did nothing but enhance my ability to enjoy a wide array of foods," Charles managed smoothly, hearing the quiet exhale of relief from the woman beside him. He would deal with the man privately later.

"Well then, here's to the spice of life," Edward replied, earning himself a small eye roll from Mary.

"I for one am always eager to try new things," Isobel interjected, the brightness of her tone a welcome relief to the conversation. "Meeting people from different places and sampling a piece of their lives through food is a most wonderful way to take in our world, wouldn't you agree?"

"Not really," the duchess murmured in response, "I have only eaten curry once, and I found it quite ghastly. I was ill for days."

"Not everyone has the constitution for such things, my dear," Violet responded. "I would stick to the pudding, if I were you."

"Come, my dear," the duke put in. "Surely you must admit that many of the lands to our east have much to recommend them. I am certain that India is a most fascinating place in its own right. Perhaps we should visit one day."

The expression of distaste coupled with disbelief that Lillian fleetingly flew his way led Mary to expect that she would verbally disagree with him. The duchess dropped her head quickly, however, offering no retort or rebuttal to her husband.

"Dear me," Violet offered. "If one finds Rome hot, I daresay India would cook one's goose."

"Of course, there is also China to consider," the duke continued, "or perhaps the exotic wonders of Siam. Or Turkey, for that matter," he interjected quietly, stilling Mary's hand as her breath caught roughly in her throat. "I have heard that it is a land with many charms to offer and filled with rather passionate people. You seemed to have found the Italians rather fascinating, Lady Mary. Do you have any particular thoughts on the Turks?"

She was frozen—suspended in time as the entire room seemed to darken around her. Mary then noticed her mother's ashen pallor, her father unthinkingly loosening his collar as her grandmother sat perfectly still. She drew steady, measured breaths, focusing deliberately on not giving into panic and fleeing from the room as she searched frantically for a suitable response.

"I have been to Turkey, your grace," Charles intervened steadily, "and I found it rather dull, I must say. I would advise that you not give it any further consideration. Take my word for it. Pursuing it would be a waste of your time."

Her eyes fluttered shut momentarily in relief, her hand daring a quick squeeze of his own under the table's secretive confines.

"If you say so, Mr. Blake," the duke replied with aplomb. "I do appreciate such honest advice."

"I assure you, your grace, adhering to it would be most decidedly in your best interest."

The discourse seemed quite unremarkable to a portion of the table's occupants, dismissed as a mere discussion of exotic destinations. But it had been frighteningly monumental to Mary and her family, the aftershocks of the duke's remarks still felt acutely. She shot Charles a look of measured thanks, noting the flint of steel in his eyes as his attention remained fixed on the man seated on her other side. He had drawn his proverbial weapon, and she was fully aware that he was prepared to spring into action on her behalf should the need arise. The thought was empowering, freeing in a remarkable way that warmed her from her toes upward.

And then it hit her, an awareness of some magnitude she could not quite fully absorb. For the first time in a year, she no longer felt alone.

"Where would you wish to go?"

They sat at last in comfortable solitude in the library, observing patterns dancing contortedly upon the wall from the receding fire. As the quiet of night finally settled upon the estate, she allowed herself the luxury of leaning against his shoulder, his arm coming around her in a calming possessiveness as they stared at the smoldering flames. Both the duchess and Lady Catherine had chosen to retire early after dinner, the younger citing a nasty headache while the elder simply stated that she needed her rest. Lord Gillinghan expressed his desire for a good night's sleep not long after that, the remainder of the guests eventually making their way home or upstairs one by one until Charles and Mary were the only pair remaining.

"Hmmm?" she inquired, too warm and contented to attempt actual speech.

"If you could toss a coin in a fountain and wish to visit anywhere in the world, where would you go?" he expounded, his finger tracing lazy circles upon her shoulder blade.

"You must promise not to laugh if I tell you," Mary breathed, turning her face to look up at him.

"Would I ever laugh at you, Mary Crawley?" he asked disarmingly, chuckling in spite of himself at the look she shot him.

"I believe I just proved my point," she stated, making him grin even broader before kissing the top of her head.

"Please tell me," he implored gently, donning that boyish expression that continually charmed its way under her skin. "I'm sure your answer will be most enlightening."

"Only if you go first," she insisted, watching him concede this small victory to her before ever saying a word. He inhaled loudly, brown eyes gazing back into the fire for a moment before fixating upon hers.

"I should like to see the Himalayan Mountains, I think, to look upon Mount Everest in all its splendor."

"Would you really?" she inquired, rather surprised by his answer.

"Absolutely," he returned. "To see the highest peak in the world would be a privilege one would never forget." He looked at her inquiringly, querying his own brow in her direction. "Would you not like to see it for yourself?"

"I am certain it would be extraordinary," she began, leaning into him even further to ward off a shiver. "But too cold for my taste."

He laughed in earnest, his hand smoothing over her hair.

"Now you sound like the duchess." She delivered a soft swat to his shoulder, becoming even more affronted by the look of hilarity in his eyes. "That was my bad shoulder," he stated, rubbing in with his free hand to prove his point.

"Don't even attempt to look injured," she demanded. "You deserved that, and you know it."

"Bedside manners, Nurse Crawley," he murmured teasingly.

"Watch it, Charles," she warned. "I can still come up with an excuse to stitch you up, you know."

"Come now, Mary," he drawled, the hint of more lacing his tone. "I can think of many more pleasurable ways to spend our time."

Before she could formulate a response, his lips captured hers softly, sampling them languidly as if he could still taste the wine from dinner lingering upon their surface. Her hand found his cheek in response, her senses quickly intoxicated into concurrence with his statement.

"You see what I mean?" he sighed contentedly. "Highly preferable to stitches in my opinion."

"Possibly," she returned coyly, "but I'm not convinced quite that easily."

"Is that a challenge, Lady Mary?" he inquired, his eyes awaiting her answer eagerly.

"Take it as you will, Mr. Blake," she instructed, one side drawing up in a teasing half smile that offered him no refusal.

"Those words could be rather dangerous," he breathed, leaning in closer as she absorbed the comfort and thrill of his proximity.

"I am a big girl, you know," she hummed, the depth in her voice seducing his reason.

"Yes—I've noticed," he whispered into her mouth before teasing her upper lip shamelessly. She shivered, reveling in this touch of life that tickled deep in her recesses. His ministrations then shifted to her lower lip, drawing it into his mouth at an agonizingly slow pace, each movement prompting her hands further around his neck as she instinctively arched into him. He took his time forging a trail to her earlobe, the sensations prickling just under her skin nearly making her cry out in spite of herself. He was doing it again, she realized, leading her into this realm where he sheltered her from the stark reality of pain, convincing her mind and body into believing that happiness might again be truly possible if she only had the courage to let him in completely.

If…

"Would you like me to stop," he questioned, the final word nearly choked down his throat in reluctance as he felt her body still beneath him.

"No," she breathed into his hair, touching her own lips to his temple as she added with hesitation. "But we probably should."

"As much as I hate to agree with your logical side, I believe you are right," he admitted, leaning back from her far enough so the air of sanity could be drawn in by them both. "The last thing I would ever want to do would be to expose you to the threat of scandal."

She gave him a wry smile, looking to him from under her lashes as she returned, "You're a bit late for that, I'm afraid. I have lived under the shadow of possible scandal for nearly half of my life."

Charles leaned back, concern overtaking his features as his arm drew her closer protectively.

"I don't want you to go anywhere near that duke," he spoke insistently, the change in his tone capturing her undivided attention. "Promise me that you will stay away from him."

"I can hardly avoid him entirely when he is a guest here," she argued, the thoughts of the man in question leaving her suddenly cold. "But I can assure you that I shall not seek out his company."

"I should have done something more tonight," he ventured, staring back into the fire as Mary realized that he was replaying the dinner conversation in his mind.

"No," she demanded quietly. "You handled it perfectly. If you had called him out on it, it could have created many more problems than it would have solved." She paused, allowing her own thoughts to return to the episode she had purposely shoved to the recesses of her thoughts. "Do you think he knows?"

Charles gazed at her intently, the compassion in his eyes answering her question before the words left his mouth.

"I do, unfortunately. Either that or he has suspicions and was fishing for information."

Mary nodded slowly, hating the fact that once again the detestable episode that had occurred so very long ago once again stood upon her very doorstep.

"Then you most decidedly handled it properly," she reasoned, looking up at him in earnest. "If you had challenged him further, he would have known outright."

"Perhaps," he conceded, frustrated at how bound his hands felt by propriety when all he desired to do was defend her honor properly. "How would he have come by that information, Mary? I thought you said that it had been kept quiet, and certainly no one in your family would have given you away."

She sighed heavily, drawing his marked attention immediately.

"My sister Edith actually wrote to the Turkish ambassador not long after it happened," she admitted grudgingly, despising the fact that her sister's attempt at revenge still had the power to hurt her, even though she always buried the sensation as quickly as it emerged. "Rumors circulated around London for a while, but thankfully they disappeared not long afterward."

"Your own sister?" he repeated incredulously, sitting taller at this affront.

"Don't judge her too harshly," Mary instructed, looking down to her hands. "Our relationship has never been easy, you see, and she was a different person then, just as I was." She gave him a wary smile, fidgeting a bit as she confessed, "I'm quite certain that you would not have liked me all that much had we met then. And the thing is, Charles, that there is still much of the girl I used to be still inside of me now."

"And you think that's a bad thing?" he questioned softly, taking one of her hands into the confines of his own.

"Not necessarily," she reasoned, her brow creasing in thought. "I was sharper then, less forgiving, I think. But I did possess a clarity of mind that I call upon when I am in danger of becoming too muddled in my thoughts these days."

"Such as when we are kissing?" he questioned playfully, sorely tempting her to hit his shoulder again.

"You're not taking me seriously," she insisted, leaning back in a bit of a huff as he chuckled senselessly in response.

"I'm taking you very seriously, Mary," he countered, drawing back so he could face her directly. "I just don't find your sharp edges all that intimidating. I have some myself, if you haven't noticed."

"And I would describe you as being rather smooth," she argued, looking to him for clarification.

"Oh, so I'm a smooth-talker now, am I?" he teased, earning himself the inevitable eye toss that always made him grin.

"Well, that's not exactly how I would describe you," she returned, the air of challenge upon her countenance just too much for him. "But it's close enough."

He kissed her suddenly—his ferocity complete and demanding, soft yet intense until she was clinging to his shoulders, claiming a part of him just as thoroughly as he was doing with her. Then his mouth left hers suddenly, his lips slightly swollen as he stated, "I think I like those sharp edges of yours very much indeed."

"Be careful," she breathed, her heart still fluttering at an ungodly rate. "You may regret those words one day."

"I doubt it," he returned, the intensity of his stare leaving her feeling nearly drugged. "Besides, if you think that I was a pillar of virtue all of my life, then think again. If you had known me ten years ago, you would have met a rather brash young man who thought he knew better concerning everything than anybody else."

"Aren't all young men brash to a certain degree?" Mary questioned.

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But not all feel the need to prove themselves as strongly as I did."

She stared at him resolutely, slightly mesmerized by the small lines just around his mouth that tightened with his last declaration.

"Your parents?" she guessed, dropping her head slightly at the nod he offered in confirmation.

"Or lack of thereof," he clarified softly as his gaze returned to the fireplace.

"I'm certain your aunt feels you have nothing to prove," she offered, turning to face him more directly. Charles gave her a genuine smile at the mention of Lady Catherine, shaking his head slightly as he confirmed her assumption.

"No. She has always been the most fervent of my supporters."

"She is quite a remarkable woman," Mary declared softly, noting the lightening of his countenance at her words.

"Yes. She most certainly is."

"I felt a bit sorry for her at dinner," Mary mused. "She tried so desperately to engage the duchess in conversation, but to no avail whatsoever. She must have felt as if she were speaking to a shrubbery."

A breath of laughter escaped Charles, and he leaned down to give her a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Do you think that woman spoke ten words tonight at the table?" he put forth, shaking his head slightly.

"I doubt it," Mary conceded. "Of course, if the only adjective one can procure to describe the city of Rome is hot, that person cannot be expected to contribute much to intelligent conversation."

"Did I not just hear you describe one of our world's most spectacular wonders as cold?" Charles teased.

"You are determined to tread upon dangerous ground, aren't you," she quipped pointedly before lapsing into a smile.

"You never did answer my question, you know," he continued, looking to her inquiringly. "Where would you go?"

She exhaled audibly, giving him a sideways glance as she contemplated her answer in silence.

"Siena," she finally admitted, looking to her hands momentarily. "I should like to visit Siena."

"You do like Italy, then," he responded gently. "Why would I laugh at you for such an answer?" She bit her lower lip unconsciously, drawing a deep breath that was interrupted by his own realization. "Il Palio," he deduced, staring at her in fascination. "You would like to watch the Palio. Is that it?"

"Yes," she admitted under her breath, finally taking in his face and the large grin that had overtaken it. "Remember—you did promise not to laugh."

"Why would I laugh at such an answer?" he inquired.

"It's not exactly considered a proper destination for ladies of breeding," she responded, teasing a chuckle out of him that she silenced with a glance.

"I think it's rather brilliant, actually," he offered sincerely. "And it suits you."

"How so?" she questioned, turning slightly more in his direction. "That race is all about tradition and loyalty to ones origins—two things you feel quite passionately about—am I right?" She offered a small nod of confirmation, watching him intently as she took in his words.

"Go on." "It involves horses, your favorite animal, I am told," he mused, his voice softening. "This also fits you perfectly in that horses are incredibly beautiful and graceful creatures who are fiercely independent by nature. They are incredibly powerful, as well, yet they hold that power in check when necessary, only unleashing it when it can be appreciated in all its glory."

Warmth crawled with determination from her chest up her neck, the dynamic level of her pulse continually increasing until it beat forcefully within her ears.

"I have never witness the Palio, but I am told that it involves a great amount of passion and daring from the riders, the horses themselves, and even the spectators." His voice was barely above a whisper now, the room continually decreasing in perimeter as flames settled into crackling embers. "And in my opinion, such a spectacle is quite appropriate for a woman of fire."

She sat speechless. She had heard herself referred to as cold, unfeeling—even hushed whispers of ice queen had filtered into her ears. She had donned such descriptions around herself, a hard protection that proved most useful in a world that could so easily injure. But…fire? No one had ever before described her in such terms.

"Are you not afraid of playing with fire, Charles?' she finally uttered, working to speak over the unsteadiness rocking within her.

"Half-terrified, actually," he admitted quietly, capturing her eyes instantly by the heavy sincerity they bore. "But I believe it's worth the risk."

Those dimples—his weapon of choice upon her defenses—targeted her precisely, tugging shamelessly at her emotions as he added, "Besides, you did toss me some of your armor, didn't you?"

She pulled him down to her, drawing her mouth across his in a small act of desperation as she poured every fear she possessed into him. He opened to her, allowing her to express what she could not speak as she sought him hungrily with trembling fingers. She marked him her own manner, each touch of her lips searing into him a message of need, a plea for patience, a cry of confusion.

"Don't hurt me," she begged, the breath of a whisper hovering just over his ear even as it branded his soul. "Please."

He clasped her to his chest tightly, suddenly too overcome to do anything but hold her. He drew her even closer, wishing he could absorb her into his very skin and allow her to feel just a measure of the emotion that had overtaken him when it came to her.

"Oh, Mary," he breathed roughly, "I pray with every fiber of my being that I never do."

She clung to him—this unexpected life-line who had changed her in the course of a week. And as she felt the stirring of a freshly lit flame within, she attached herself firmly to his warmth, terrified of fanning this spark any further yet resolutely determined not to let it burn out.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected threat forces Mary into a tricky situation.

"Thank you, Campbell," Mary issued, eyeing herself once again in the mirror as she gave her lady's maid a glance of approval. "I do like this hairstyle quite well." 

The younger woman's eyes nearly disappeared into her cheekbones as a genuine smile of relief overran her features.

"I am so glad you approve, my lady. I was certain this look would suit you."

"You were quite bold to suggest something new," Mary continued, rubbing lotion into her hands. "You would have been rather miserable if I had hated it." Glynis dropped her head, looking back at her lady with a grin.

"It's always good to try new things, I think. Keeps us from getting stuck in the past."

"Words of wisdom, indeed," Mary decreed quietly, looking at Glynis over her shoulder. "Are they your own thoughts, or advice from another source." 

"From Headmistress Blake, herself," Glynis admitted, seeing to any final touch-ups on Mary's hair before preparing to take her leave. Mary smiled to herself at the girl's statement, understanding the absolute depth of Lady Catherine's words as she allowed them to settle. "If I may, my lady," Glynis began, a trace of nervousness lining the edges of her voice. "You look quite lovely today. Life must be agreeing with you." 

Mary swiveled around upon her vanity bench, looking the younger woman directly as she absorbed her compliment, the rather personal nature of it striking too close to home for her comfort. 

"Thank you, Campbell," she voiced. "That will be all."

The maid curtseyed politely, realizing that she had been decisively dismissed as she closed the door behind her. But the younger woman's rather bold assertion prompted Mary turned back to the mirror, studying her image more closely as she sought just what had prompted Campbell's observation. Shallow circles that had been her constant companions were now noticeably absent, having abandoned their dwellings in the crevices under her eyes. She raised her hands to the sides of her face, noting a pale hue of color there that had been missing for longer than she could remember. An ashen gauntness had been subtly replaced by an opaque shimmer lingering on her skin, making her appear more alert, more vibrant, more alive. 

Her body stirred, insistently reminding her of its own awakening within sheltering arms and skilled hands that still left her breathless. Fingers followed the path his lips had taken upon her neck yesterday afternoon, her heartbeat accenting the journey as her breasts began to tingle. Nerve endings that had been dormant in deep slumber were now fully alert, her body crying out for her to arise from her lonely chamber and bask unashamedly in the warm rays just outside her tower. What was it her granny had stated? That once certain delights had been partaken, it could be rather difficult to hold back, especially for someone with a passionate nature?

A woman of fire. 

Her body shuddered at the memory of his words, pressure pulsing in her temples as this newness assaulted her, pushing her towards her bed as she sat upon it, rubbing her forehead in an effort to slow her thoughts. For a moment, she wished she were more brazen, wondering just what it would be like if she could truly disassociate her mind and emotions from her physical senses. Mary fully understood the futility of such musings, but his kisses and caresses were just so alluring. The reckless side of her was ready to submerge with Charles, to allow herself to experience depths of sensation crashing over her with this man who had led her to the water's edge. But then there were her feelings to consider. 

She shook her head in a misguided attempt to clear it, memories of a life now past reaching out to her as she could sense a different pair of arms holding her tightly. They had lain naked together countless times in this very bed, limbs tangled in such a manner that Mary could truly not feel where her body left off and his began. His touches—so loving and gentle—had taught her the meaning of true intimacy, of what it was supposed to be like when a man made love to a woman. Her encounter with Pamuk had marked her in more ways than one, leaving her more frightened of a most precious act than she dared confess on their wedding night. But Matthew had known somehow, his own inexperience and transparency coaxing away her misgivings one by one until she was absolute putty in his hands. 

It came down to trust, she had come to understand, that the physical act itself was cold without that greater level of intimacy. Matthew had not only seen her naked physically, but had somehow encouraged her to bare her emotions to him, an act that had been much more difficult for her than allowing him to touch and enter her body. Emotions were difficult for Mary, a facet of her being she would rather mute than sort out. They were complicated, messy, and they created a cacophony which often drove her to distraction. 

Had Matthew never entered her life, she could but imagine where she would be. She very likely would be tied to a man in a marriage by design, one in which she could control just how much of herself she would offer into the equation of its depth of feeling. And she almost assuredly would not be a widow raising a son alone. But Matthew had ruined all of that. His disarming manner and quick mind had cut through defenses, his tender soul sneaking through crevices she had thought impenetrable. Before she could control her weak sensibilities, they had firmly wrapped themselves around the man, burying their teeth so deeply that Mary finally had to admit that nothing could sever the attachment, not even his death. 

Dear God, she had loved him so much.

She closed her eyes, wishing all too late that those words had fallen from her lips with more frequency than she had permitted them. The few times they had, she had felt inexplicably as if she had given away a piece of herself that could never be returned. Somehow she had believed that if she spoke the words too often, she would eventually disappear, losing her identity in the role of wife that had been planned out for her since her gender had been announced at birth. Such vulnerability could steal her identity, Mary had feared, chipping away at her very core until there would be nothing left of her to offer. 

How foolish, she berated herself yet again, but there it stood. Mary had instead tried to show Matthew the true depth of her feelings in her most personal language, the gesture of touch that could convey the longings of her soul, surpassing the boundaries of speech. When she would touch her hand to his face, memorizing the feel of his skin beneath her palm…I love you, Matthew. When she would kiss him, taking into her being the breaths he exhaled as their tongues mated in a delicious frenzy…I am not complete without you. When she would draw his hand to her breast, reveling in how beautiful yet helpless his touch made her feel…I trust you completely. When she could not help but kiss his skin, using her mouth to demonstrate her passion across the plains of his body rather than to merely verbalize it...I need you so desperately. When she dared to open herself freely to his caress, placing herself in a most vulnerable state before him…I know you won't hurt me. When she would finally draw him fully inside her, allowing him to probe her depths in a manner that was almost beyond comprehension until she would cry out in completion… I am yours, my darling, and you are mine. 

She had painted her emotions into his skin, tattooing her unspoken feelings into his pores. Yet he had spoken those words so freely to her, each uttering of them whispering a blessed peace into a heart that had all but given up on ever loving or being loved so completely. How she wished she had simply had the courage to voice those sentiments to him more frequently. She breathed them nightly into her son, speaking her love into his hair when rocking him to sleep, and christening him in such sentiment with every kiss she adorned on his cheeks. Mary would not allow her foolish notions to leave this one remaining remnant of Matthew in any doubt of the depth of her feelings for him. And as she baptized George with her words of love, she somehow hoped that the pieces of his father dwelling within the boy would hear them, too.

Where did all of this leave her? 

Her eyes strayed to the bed table, the book of poetry sitting there yet unopened. She picked it up gingerly, stroking the cover before daring to open its hidden confines. Lovely verses penned by Tennyson of the sleeping princess spoke to her, an absolute understanding of a forced hibernation granting her instant kinship with the story. How tragic that an entire kingdom had been suspended in time as well, she noted, the sleeping beauty's fateful curse becoming the destiny of all who dwelled within the confines of her keep. 

The tentacles of grief stretched far. 

Her attention was commanded by the passage Charles's had written down for her in his note of courtship, the words hitting her with decidedly more force than they had just days ago as she now knew more of him. She fought the urge to pull the letter itself from the protective confines of her drawer, her heart fluttering anew at the sentiments offered upon the page. 

_She sleeps…_

Yet she slept no longer, that was clearly evident. Her eyes had been opened, and the world around her was nearly blinding at times. Mary idiotically caught herself longing to take in every new sensation physically, to allow bare toes to walk across the grass, to swim unhindered in clear water, no matter if it chilled her skin. And even though a portion of her was still weary, another segment was now refreshed, ready to stretch unused muscles and put on a new frock to face the sunlight. 

She had not been awakened to the same world in which she had fallen to slumber, but to one that had not been suspended, moving forward in spite of her absence from it. It was new, it was fragrant, a world of brown eyes, thick, dark hair, of long fingers that caressed piano keys as artfully as they did her face. There was laughter here, lively conversation and understanding she had never dared hope would be possible again. Here passion still dwelled, as did a tenderness that spoke to her no matter how desperately she might try to drown out its calling. 

And it awaited her arrival. 

She returned her attention to the book, a new passage bidding her to read it as she lost herself in its meaning. 

_He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks:_

_He breaks the hedge: he enters there:_

_The colour flies into his cheeks:_

_He trusts to light on something fair;_

_For all his life the charm did talk_

_About his path, and hover near_

_With words of promise in his walk,_

_And whisper'd voices at his ear._

_More close and close his footsteps wind:_

_The Magic Music in his heart_

_Beats quick and quicker, till he find_

_The quiet chamber far apart._

_His spirit flutters like a lark,_

_He stoops–to kiss her–on his knee._

_'Love, if thy tresses be so dark,_

_How dark those hidden eyes must be!'_

Love. How close to love were his feelings for her, she suddenly wondered, shaking her head at the absurdity of the notion that Charles could feel something so deeply for her so very quickly. But was it truly absurd? And just how would she label her own feelings for him? She knew they were well beyond infatuation, having entered an area that made her nervous even as it beckoned her forward. And as she realized just how utterly her emotions were beginning to betray her again, Mary buried her head in her hands. 

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered to the confines of her bedroom. "What am I to do?" 

No answer was forthcoming, even the drapes hanging motionless as air seemed reluctant to stir. She heard the faint call of geese just outside her window, wondering just where their flight would take them as she envisioned their progress across the clouds. No one would offer her an answer, she understood, her mother's words of there being no set rules when it came to matters of the heart reminding her of just how solitary a process this could be. Just how her heart had managed to get itself caught up in the middle of…of this she still could not rationalize. It was too soon for her logically, yet here she sat, longing for his presence, his laughter, his touch…all of Charles Blake in a manner that made no sense. 

Perhaps Anna was right—maybe she should allow herself to feel more and think less. Yet feelings had never failed to leave her injured, open exposure repeatedly brutal upon her emotions. And if she should feel exposed as her tower was being undone? Her own question put to him under the tree as another fairy tale was discussed at length came back to her, his answer washing through her with a force that nearly left her breathless.

It is always his job to make sure that she feels protected. 

He had watched her sleep as he tended to George, had leaped to her defense with both Edward Roquefort and the hideous duke. He had cast no judgment upon her when she had told him of Pamuk and had held her repeatedly when she shed tears over Matthew. Charles Blake was a protector at heart. And until this moment, she had not realized just how deep the yearning in her soul for such a man had reached. She sat in the quiet, reading a moment more before standing from her bed to face whatever lay outside of her room's protective walls. She marked the page on which were written words that had shaken her, yet she knew with absolute certainty that she would return to their persistent beckoning again when she later prepared herself for bed. 

_And on her lover's arm she leant,_

_And round her waist she felt it fold,_

_And far across the hills they went_

_In that new world which is the old:_

_Across the hills, and far away_

_Beyond their utmost purple rim,_

_And deep into the dying day_

_The happy princess follow'd him._

"Ah—Lady Mary," Edward crooned, Mary realizing with marked disappointment that she had missed her opportunity for escape by mere seconds. "You have emerged at last." 

"Good morning, Mr. Roquefort," Mary replied, putting on a polite face. "I do trust you had a pleasant breakfast." 

"Pleasant, and rather quiet," Edward answered. "It would seem as though I was the quite late in arriving and missed partaking the morning meal with the rest of the gentlemen." 

"I am certain they were quite despondent without your company," Mary returned, one corner of her mouth turning up as she spoke. 

"I am certain they were," came his response, Edward eyeing her keenly. "Especially that Mr. Blake of yours. I have become rather attached to him, you know." 

"I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear it," she quipped, forcing herself not to grin at the look she was certain would cross Charles's face when she told him of this exchange. "Do you know where he is, perchance?" 

"So the two of you did not get enough of each other after the rest of us retired last night?" Edward inquired, raising his brows until they disappeared dramatically into the lines of his forehead. "Gillingham and I might as well go home with our tails tucked between our legs, it would seem."

"Whatever suits you, Mr. Roquefort," Mary smiled, "Although I am not certain that the other guests would appreciate you speaking for them." 

"Oh, I don't know," Edward mused dramatically. "He speaks so very little that he might appreciate me saving him the effort." 

"Well, at least you never seem to be at a loss for something to say," Mary returned, her patience beginning to wear thin. 

"Oh, I always have something of interest to report, Lady Mary," Edward stated, sounding all too pleased with himself. "For example, I have learned some most delicious tidbits concerning your Mr. Blake, about his late wife, in particular." 

She stood immobile, the slight edge of venom lacing his voice freezing Mary's blood instantly.

"Really?" she questioned, willing a steady aloofness into her tone that she did not feel. "And just why were you checking up on Mr. Blake to begin with?" 

"Oh, Lady Mary," Edward preened, stepping too close into her perimeter. "I make it a point to know something about everyone with whom I come in contact."

Mary stared at him in loathing, any pretense of civility clattering to the floor as his threat took center stage. 

"It is not considered gentlemanly conduct to pry so overtly into other people's private affairs," she shot back smoothly, determined not to step away from him even a fraction. 

"No," he conceded willingly, "but it can be quite prudent—even profitable at times. And when one is the second son, it offers a measure of power denied to one at birth."

"Mr. Roquefort, I am at a bit of a loss," Mary clipped, tilting her head slightly as her eyes bored into his. "Do you or do you not have a purpose for this conversation?"

"Why, Lady Mary," he sneered, "I would think that by now you would know that everything I do has a purpose."

"A self-serving one, no doubt," she stated flatly, her insides crawling uncomfortably as she continued to wait upon his declaration. 

"Of course," he smiled, the faint yellowing of his teeth making her inexplicably want to scratch her arms. "What better purpose is there?" 

"Mr. Roquefort, I am tiring of this game. If you have nothing of actual value to say, then I shall bid you a good morning," she retorted, done with his antics and innuendo.

"As you wish, my lady," he returned, "Perhaps I should seek out your father, then. I am certain he would find what I have learned most intriguing, indeed." 

He had her, and she detested him for it.

"And just what have you learned?" she demanded curtly. "I shall tolerate no further empty implications." 

"Ahhh—a lady who likes to get down to the business at hand," Edward mused, pursing his lips dramatically. "No wonder Mr. Blake enjoys your company so very much."

That remark would have sent Charles over the edge had he heard it. She was suddenly sorry that he wasn't here.

"You were saying?" she pressed, moving to stand even closer to him as she made use of her slight height advantage. 

"Only that it would seem your Mr. Blake has a taste for the exotic, my lady," Edward preened. "Of course, the allure of India could have blindsided him. I do understand that some men just have a weakness for forbidden fruit, as do some women, I am told."

"And I tire of listening to you speak in riddles," Mary fired back, narrowing her own eyes slightly as she fought back a swell of nausea. "It would seem as though you have a weakness for provoking the wrong people, Mr. Roquefort."

"Oh, Lady Mary, am I provoking you?" Edward questioned dramatically. "Forgive me, I meant no such offense at all. I was merely attempting to warn you." 

"Warn me?" she queried, doubt encircling dark orbs as they bored into him mercilessly. "Of whom? Mr. Blake? Forgive me if I find that so ironic that it borders upon the ridiculous."

"Ridiculous, is it?" he mused, shrugging his shoulders in exaggeration. "So you would consider information concerning his late wife ridiculous?" 

She cursed inwardly, drawing a deep breath as she adjusted the mask of calm upon her face.

"And why is Mr. Blake's unfortunate wife any of your concern?" Mary threw back, unwilling to grant him even a small piece of ground in this verbal tug-of-war. 

"Because I am your friend, Lady Mary," he attested, drawing his brows together for effect. "And I believe it is important that you be informed of any, shall we say, lapses of decorum on his part. It is only fair that you know as much as you can about him if you are going to sneak off into corners with the man, wouldn't you say?" 

"Go on," Mary pushed, needing to ascertain just what Mr. Roquefort actually knew from what he might be guessing. 

"Your Mr. Blake made a rather interesting choice in wife," Edward began, his nostrils flaring slightly in muted excitement. "No blushing English rose for him, it would seem. You might want to make note of that if you are considering any future plans with the gentleman in question. It would seem that he rather does enjoy the spice of life." 

"Your concern for my welfare is touching," Mary bit back, raising one brow in a warning. "But I can assure you that Mr. Blake and I are perfectly capable of discussing his deceased wife without your assistance."

"So the fact that he was married to an Indian woman does not bother you in the slightest?" he pressed, nearly forcing her to take a small step backwards that she fought doing with sheer will. "I never knew that the Crawley family was so very modern in their thinking." 

"It would seem there are many things about which you know next to nothing," she retorted firmly. 

"I assume your parents share this rather liberal world-view with you, then?" he questioned with feigned innocence. Her insides ran cold, and she was certain he sensed it.

"And just why is the manner in which my parents view the world of any concern to you?" she challenged, speaking quietly even as her heart hammered in her temples. 

"It isn't, really," he admitted, frowning in contemplation. "But I would think that it be of great concern to you."

"The late Mrs. Blake's ethnicity does not trouble me at all," Mary continued, pressing on offensively as she struggled not to lose her standing. "I fail to see why you are so certain it should matter to my parents. His wife is no longer alive, so there is truly no issue here." 

"Oh, come now," he quipped, rolling his own eyes. "One's past always has a way of catching up with one and making life rather complicated. I thought you of all people would know that, Lady Mary." He had shed the skin of congeniality, his true nature hissing a warning while Mary watched for him to blink. "People of our class do not usually tolerate mixing the gene pool, a fact of which you are well aware. Life could become much more difficult for a newcomer such as Mr. Blake settling in the vicinity if word were to ever get out about her."

"What do you want?" Mary questioned directly, ending this cavorted dance abruptly. He chuckled, the sound quite menacing as her skin crawled in tandem. 

"He is in possession of a rather spectacular horse, I am told," Edward began, "A Marwari from India. Do you have any idea of just how rare and valuable they are, Lady Mary?" 

She felt as though he had punched her in the gut.

"Yes, I am quite aware of that fact," she spoke evenly, controlling the rise and fall of her chest with determination. 

"I would very much like to negotiate a deal with him to purchase the creature," he continued, raising her urge to panic with every word he uttered. "I was simply hoping that you could convince him to accept my offer."

"What do you want with a Marwari?" she hissed, knowing just how much that horse meant to Charles. He had sought her out, bargained for her, practically begged for the right to purchase her. And he had named her Kala—dark beauty, the description that had made her blush at the dinner table several nights ago. But now she knew the authentic source of the name, the purpose behind his quest in obtaining the creature: She was a tangible reminder of his lost wife and daughter. 

No—she would never allow Mr. Edward Roquefort to take the horse from Charles, to rip from his possession a living reminder of the lives stolen from him. 

"Prestige," he replied, gazing at her as if she were a simpleton. "To be in possession of such an animal offers one such an air of power and respectability." 

"Two things you are dreadfully lacking," she put in boldly, fighting back the urge to claw his eyes out. 

"Be careful, Lady Mary," he commanded, the timbre of his voice hardening instantly. "You're not exactly in a position to point fingers or make demands."

"And you are a guest in my family's home, or have you forgotten yourself?" she shot back, ire overcoming fear momentarily as it steadied her feet.

"How could I forget?" he drawled lazily. "I do enjoy everyone's company so very much. I suppose I should seek out your father's engaging conversation sooner or later." 

He turned on his heels and left her, humming some ridiculous tune to himself that was horribly off-pitch. Her insides began to churn once more, and Mary raised her hand to her forehead as she attempted to make sense of what had just occurred. Edward Roquefort had no love of horses, no business to run in breeding and selling them. His sudden interest in the equine puzzled her, her brain racing in a frenzy as she sought to piece together his logic in making such a demand. Then it dawned on her—the true reason he wanted so badly to take this prize from Charles. In Edward's own distorted mind, Charles had stolen any possibility of obtaining her hand and all of the prestige it carried with it right out of his grasp. And he was determined to take something of value to him in retaliation. To have the last laugh. 

"Excuse me, my lady, are you all right?" 

Mary jumped slightly at the unexpected intrusion, turning quickly to gaze into the concerned eyes of Mrs. Hughes. 

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes, but thank you." She only hoped that she sounded convincing. The head housekeeper nodded, pursing her lips in a manner that alerted Mary to the fact that she had another purpose in seeking her out. "Is there something else?" Mary inquired, attempting to appear as unfazed by the uncomfortable encounter with Mr. Roquefort as she possibly could.

"Yes, there is," Mrs. Hughes admitted, holding out a slip of paper. "I have a telephone message for Mr. Blake from Dr. Clarkson. It seems as though the doctor has found a private nurse who would be willing to look after Lady Catherine as she continues to recover." 

"That's wonderful news," Mary stated, happy for at least one good thing. "Would you like me to inform Mr. Blake?" 

"That is what I came to find out, my lady," Mrs. Hughes confirmed. "If you wanted to deliver the message to him yourself, or if you would prefer that I have Alfred do it?"

"I shall take care of it, Mrs. Hughes," Mary stated, taking the note into her hands as Mrs. Hughes nodded in return.

"Very good, my lady," the housekeeper replied, turning to take her leave before Mary stopped her. 

"Do you happen to know exactly where Mr. Blake is at the moment?" Mary questioned. 

"He's out back with Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes replied. "They mentioned something about building a dog house on their way out the door earlier this morning." 

A dog house? Was the infernal puppy now to become a permanent resident? 

"Shall I summon him for you, my lady?" Mrs. Hughes inquired softly, awaiting Mary's answer in silence. 

"There's no need," Mary returned. "I believe I should like to have a look at this dog house for myself." 

The fact that it was hotter than it should have been for this time of year assailed her as she marched out the back door in search of two men who were up to a covert operation of which they knew she would not approve. Beads of sweat pearled on the back of her neck, making her wish that she had dressed in a lighter frock than the one she had donned in anticipation of autumn-like weather. Why Charles and Tom would have any desire to perform physical labor of any sort in such heat mystified her, especially when it was done for no other purpose than erecting a shelter for a stray canine. The thought processes of men still mystified her at times. Mary found them effortlessly, shirt sleeves rolled up and jackets discarded as they laid wood out to measure and cut. She stood silently for a brief, unobserved moment, admiring against her will the tautness of arm muscles currently displayed in a manner yet unseen by her. The sight of Charles in such a state stirred her, both physically and emotionally as the myriad of her morning thoughts once again cried out for her attention. And when her gaze rounded as he dared to undo a button on his shirt in an effort to cool himself, she knew she had to make her presence known. 

"And just what are you constructing, pray?" she inquired, glowering at them both in a manner that demanded an answer. Tom's eyes widened slightly, his face searching that of his companion to be certain of just how to phrase their response. But Charles just grinned at her, the eagerness for a morning debate conveyed shamelessly in his expression. 

"It would seem as though the puppy was in need of a home," Charles began, laying down the plank he had been holding and taking a step in her direction. "He has evidently been disturbing some of the flower beds, so we are simply trying to keep the poor chap out of trouble." 

"Poor chap?" Mary echoed, drawing her brow up slightly higher. "Is my mother aware of your activities?" 

"No, but your father is," Tom returned quickly, dropping his eyes back to his work as he sensed her displeasure.

"It would seem as though we are dealing with a clear case of men vs. women in this matter," Mary put forth. "Of course, the men seem to have made a final decision without consulting the women involved." 

Charles took two more steps in her direction, the slight sheen of sweat on his skin provoking a shiver up and down her legs she fought down purposefully. 

"That is not quite true," he began, stifling the powerful urge to kiss her soundly, even with Tom standing as witness. "Young Sybbie was quite enthusiastic about the idea."

"Is that so?" she returned. "And just when, may I ask, did the two of you consult with my niece concerning this issue?"

"Just a few minutes ago, actually," Tom replied, tossing his head slightly to his right. "She and George are playing in the yard just over there with Nanny Thompson." 

Mary's eyes followed the path his gesture had indicated, watching Nanny Thompson toss a large blue ball in Sybbie's direction as her son attempted to steal the toy from his cousin.

"Come on, Mary," her brother-in-law pleaded quietly, shooting her a look of sincerity that irked her for some reason. "The children both adore the puppy." 

"Of course they do," she shot back incredulously. "They also adore sweets, skipping their naps and being allowed to go to bed without a bath, but that doesn't mean we allow them to manage their own affairs. They are children." 

His chuckle did not surprise her, encouraging her to step towards him as she shot him a wordless challenge. 

"You should have seen George's expression when Biscuit licked his face," Charles stated, his dimples becoming more defined at the expression of horror upon Mary's features. "He was absolutely thrilled, Mary." 

"Although he kept calling him _cat,_ " Tom cut in, shaking his head in confusion. "I tried to to correct him, but the boy was insistent." 

Dark eyes met wordlessly, Mary noting an actual blush creeping up his neck as Charles smiled in unabashed glee. 

"Yes, George seems rather attached to both cats and dogs these days," she quipped ruefully, "Although both kinds of creatures can get my dander up if they're not careful."

"Do tell," Charles breathed in her direction, Tom oblivious to the exchange as he continued to stare at the building supplies in front of him. "Besides, how can you resist such cuteness before you?" 

"Cuteness is in the eye of the beholder," she returned, her brow annunciating her meaning clearly as his dimples caught the implication. 

"It most certainly is," he agreed softly, bringing forth a small sigh in response that tingled down to her knees. 

"And just who is going to care for this puppy?" she reluctantly inquired, unwilling to give in but unable to resist the insistent tugging upon her heart at the thought of her son's delight.

"I will," Tom answered quickly. "And I'll teach Sybbie and George what to do as they grow older."

She offered neither response nor rebuttal, both men sensing her lowered resistance to the idea that propelled Tom to return to work. 

"I have a message for you," she finally offered, fighting down the urge to straighten a wayward lock of his hair. 

"Will you walk with me, then?" Charles questioned quietly, smiling at her nodded consent before wiping his face with a towel. 

"Don't go too far," Tom teased, grinning to himself as Mary's eyes yelled back at him. They strolled around the corner of the house, waiting until neither could detect any watchful gazes upon them before her arm linked itself through his own. The contact heightened her senses, and she instinctively moved her body in closer to his as they followed a wordless trail to the tree that still held the poor kite hostage. Her thoughts kept weighing themselves as she struggled to decide whether or not she should tell him of Mr. Roquefort's threats. She knew what his response would be, that his protectiveness of her would overshadow any considerations he held for himself. He would confront Edward blatantly, and she was certain just how that encounter would end. Charles would take care of the smaller man decisively in the physical realm. 

But Edward Roquefort's knowledge could complicate life for the two of them immensely. 

"And just what message do you have for me this morning?" he inquired gently, turning to face her even as he stood in close proximity. "Dare I hope it is from you?"

"There's nothing wrong in hoping, I suppose," she answered with a sideways grin, pushing aside other considerations so she could think them through later. "But the message is from Dr. Clarkson. He has found a private nurse for your aunt." She handed him the note, watching as he nodded in satisfaction before slipping it into a pocket. 

"That is good news. I can take her home tomorrow now that there will be someone to look after her properly." His eyes sought hers out, their richness beckoning her forward as he voiced with a bit of uncertainty, "Perhaps you would like to accompany me to York? I should very much like to show you around my home." 

Her pulse responded immediately, and she swallowed in an attempt to force the pounding down from her throat. 

"I should like that very much, indeed," Mary replied, casting her eyes to the grass before adding, "However, Mama might not appreciate it if I leave her alone with the rest of the party." 

"She is hardly alone," Charles observed wryly. "And we can invite the others along if you insist." He then leaned forward, his lips just making contact with her ear as he breathed into her, "Although I would much prefer to have you all to myself for a while." 

Her body shuddered down to her toes, her spine instinctively curving into him as she responded, "That might not be the most prudent of ideas, you know." 

She felt his laugh resonate in her own torso, turning her face up to his as he admitted, "I know." 

Her back was quickly against the tree, Charles quite cautious not to push her against the rough bark as his lips worried her ear in a most delicious manner. A heated giddiness tickled a trail through her veins, sensitizing tender skin even further to the ministrations of his mouth. Restless hands clasped onto his shoulders, her head making contact with the wood behind her as she sought something solid to keep her upright. He drew her lobe gently through his teeth, the sensations forcing her to bite her lip in an effort not to cry out. Her neck was next in the line of fire, pulsing skin rejoicing at the renewal of attentions in that area that had been first explored but yesterday. His mouth daringly moved to her collar bone, the jolt nearly bringing her out of her shoes as her arms encircled his neck, contact with his sweat-slickened skin only firing her need further. He then claimed her pulse point with exquisite gentleness, her body responding with an unleashed abandon that almost frightened her. She pulled him as close to her as she could, drawing his attentions to the hidden wonders of her mouth, her ferocity in returning the kiss nearly rocking him backwards as he held her to him securely.

"Bring your swimming attire," he whispered into her mouth, his words prompting her eyes to fly open in surprise. 

"You can't be serious," she insisted quietly, drawing back just far enough to examine his eyes for herself, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Believe me, Mary," he grinned, placing a light kiss upon her nose. "I am quite serious, indeed." 

Opportunity to discuss the matter further was decidedly denied as he engaged her lips and tongue in other pursuits. And Mary found she had no complaints to voice about that whatsoever.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary visits Charles's estate.

"I am so delighted that you could accompany us today," Lady Catherine smiled, grasping Mary's hand across the small space between them in the backseat of Charles's convertible. "Your company makes the journey even brighter, my dear."

Mary smiled at the compliment, her insides rumbling in nervous anticipation as she watched Charles maneuver the car expertly around a curve.

"I am very much looking forward to seeing your home," she replied evenly, attempting to quell the rumbling within as a part of her understood the underlying reason for this invitation. Yes—it had been a kind offer, and the fact that his aunt was journeying with them had at least given them the appearance of having a chaperone. But Mary was keenly aware that this was more than just an outing to his estate. Charles was offering her a glimpse into his private world, an entry into areas of his reality unseen by her up until this point. He was essentially giving her a sample of what life was like at his home.

And she knew without a doubt that he was seeking her approval.

"I must admit that Rufforth Hall is much grander than to what I had become accustomed in Edinburgh," Lady Catherine continued, "but it is beginning to feel like home, all the same. And the grounds are beautiful, I must say."

"Ajit informed me this morning that the last of your books finally arrived from Scotland," Charles relayed to her, making his aunt's eyes sparkle in delight. "He was in the process of arranging them for you just before we left Downton."

"Ajit?" Mary inquired, wondering just why she had never considered the very distinct possibility that Charles would have Indians as a part of his household staff.

"Ajit is our butler," Lady Catherine explained congenially.

"He took care of my father and me quite adeptly in India," Charles continued. "And when I informed him of my plans to sell that estate and move back to England, he asked if he and his wife could continue to work for me. I told him yes before he could change his mind and withdraw the offer."

"What does his wife do?" Mary asked, becoming even more fascinated by the moment at just who and what she would find at Rufforth Hall.

"Ishana is our cook," Charles replied, wishing he could see her reactions clearly. "And believe me, she could give Mrs. Patmore a run for her money."

"And don't worry, my dear," Lady Catherine interjected. "Ishana is quite adept at preparing both traditional English and Indian cuisine. After all, she did cook for British citizens for decades. You need not worry that your lunch will light a fire upon your palette."

Mary smiled at her assurances, wondering if the traditional constraints of English society were so strictly observed at an estate owned by a man raised in Scotland and India and overseen by a lady who had brought up a child alone and risen to the rank of headmistress on her own merit. She somehow doubted it.

"It's a good thing that Mr. Roquefort did not join us," Mary mused wryly, noting the older woman's head shake at the mere mention of the scoundrel's name.

"In more ways than one, I daresay," Lady Catherine retorted with more than a hint of mischief in her tone.

Countryside that had been a life-long acquaintance moved past her quickly, oddly as foreign to Mary at the moment as India itself would have been. How was it possible to feel so at ease yet so restless at the same time? Her mother had nearly leapt from her seat when she had informed her of Charles's invitation, waving away any concerns of entertaining guests alone in her delight at just what such a visit could instigate. Cora saw this as a precursor to a possible engagement, a step in the right direction for her daughter and grandson that she would encourage with zeal. Mary downplayed her own nervous excitement over the outing, unwilling to give her mother the slightest bit of fuel to add to her already blazing hearth. She was by no means ready to entertain the notion of marrying again just yet.

But here she sat in his car en route to his estate, understanding resolutely that men such as Charles Blake did not simply show up in one's life on a regular basis. Anna's words to her from years past took on new life, words of caution and advice on the eve of her wedding to Matthew.

_What I see is a good man, m'lady. And, they're not like buses. There won't be another along in ten minutes' time._

No—when a good man was lost, there was no guarantee that another would ever come along in his stead. For a year Mary had resigned herself to a post-love life, certain that an opportunity to be with a man who made her feel anything rather than disdain or apathy would never present itself again. How could it? Had she not expended every ounce of love she was capable of producing upon Matthew, depleting herself of the ability to conjure up even a small amount for any hapless gentleman who might wander across her path? She had been so certain that no other man could ever stir feelings within her again, could ever make her long to be held and touched and kissed in manners of which she dare not speak. But such longings now rumbled, emotions now stirred. And the culprit who had launched such lunacy within sat in front of her, tempting her to stroke the back of his neck to reaffirm the fact that he was actually real and not a product of her own imagination.

Mary was still so uncertain of what to do with Charles Blake, how to manage feelings that seemed to have already drafted their own agenda when it came to the man. But there was that growing portion of her that had tired of gripping the reins of her life so very tightly, that was panting to release control and enjoy the sensation of allowing the wind to blow freely through unbound hair on a ride she did not have to steer. Such thoughts were fool-hardy, reckless, and should be beneath a woman of her stature. But they were present, nonetheless, demanding more and more of her attention as this new world of hers kept beckoning her to open her door and experience its pleasures. And she now sat in his back seat, attempting with little success to control unruly butterflies flitting in her stomach at the knowledge that she had secretly brought along a swimsuit at his request.

Good God, just what had she been thinking?

It had not been good judgment that had prompted such an action, that much was certain. And it was most certainly not the will to adhere to a traditional sense of propriety that made her long for more time alone with the man. She was acting in sheer accordance with her desires at the moment, a decision that had her skin tingling in excitement while she rationalized her actions the best that she could. Copses of trees stubbornly blocked her view, the uncertainty of what might lie just around the corner touching her with a frustrating excitement. But the vista broadened slowly, stone fences lining each side hinting their impending approach to Rufforth Hall. Her anticipation began to bubble over as she observed a few horses grazing languidly in green fields, turning to her left so she could view them better. Two chestnuts, one white mare…no sign of the illusive dark beauty anywhere among their ranks.

Just when and where was she to inform Charles of Edward Roquefort's ultimatum?

A large home of grey stone arose from the landscape, crying out for her full attention at their continuing approach. Its coloring did nothing to disrupt its cheerful nature, perhaps due in part to the patches of ivy trellising stubbornly up the sides, softening the starkness and blending the manor into its natural environment in a lovely way. She was utterly enchanted.

"Do you like it, Mary?" he queried, the slight hitch in his voice betraying his nervousness as his hand unconsciously raked through his hair. He had nearly leaped from the car to help her from the automobile, pausing to study her reaction before moving to assist his aunt.

"Very much," she assured him. The near glow that beamed from his face at her words made her feel light on her feet, and she fought the urge to cup his cheek in assurance, returning her gaze to his house instead.

"I know it's not as grand as Downton, but I actually feel at home here," he ventured, leaning slightly in her direction as she smiled up at him.

"It's perfect," she whispered almost to herself, the words out of her mouth before she could halt their progress, feeling as though she had just exposed another portion of her inner workings for his perusal. It sounded as if she were inspecting his home for her own needs, giving him a grade based on her personal expectations rather than his own. Checking out her potential territory.

"It suits you, I mean," she offered, attempting to correct words too personal that had already traversed the space between them.

"Thank you," he whispered in return.

Could his eyes appear any fuller, she wondered as his smile lightened his face? How was it her words brought him such joy, made him appear even taller than he had mere seconds ago? And just what was she doing here with him? He then kissed the top of her head before she could ponder the matter even further, making her draw back and look up at him in a slight censure.

"Not in front of your aunt," Mary warned, staring somewhat agape at him as he shook his head and chuckled.

"Don't mind me," a voice cried from the back of the auto, Mary's cheeks warming quickly as she directed her stance towards Lady Catherine. "Just pretend I'm not here and carry on."

Charles flicked a brow playfully in her direction, heating her skin from pink to a muted shade of red as he then dared to toss her a wink Good God, just what would her parents have said over such a public display of affection? It was quite a good thing that they had not witnessed any of their behavior under the protective shade of the tree yesterday. She felt momentarily bereft as Charles left her side to help his aunt emerge from the vehicle, the loss of his nearness reminding her that she was indeed a mere visitor here. The foreignness of her environment was only accentuated as an Indian man emerged from the house, bowing ceremoniously in their direction as he approached. He took care of Lady Catherine's belongings without a word, smiling congenially at Mary before following them towards the front entrance.

"Thank you, Ajit," Lady Catherine called from behind her shoulder as her nephew helped her through the front door.

"My pleasure, my lady," Ajit responded in perfect English, the rich baritone timbre of his voice reminding Mary in an odd and reassuring way of Carson. How lovely for Charles that he could bring these servants from his life in India to ease his transition into his own estate. But Mary could not help but wonder at how great a change life in England must be for Ajit and his wife. Of course, life transitions of any sort were rarely easy. The manor's interior matched the impression given by its outer facade, bringing a pleasant glimmer to Mary's gaze as she looked around in appreciation. She noted the library off to her immediate right, a drawing room to her left, and an impressive yet not overly ornate staircase in front of her. The colors were of lighter hues here than at Downton, almost as if spring and summer were perennial seasons here at Rufforth Hall and winter forever banished from its confines. The drapes were open, welcoming the sun's rays into a home she noted did not seem completely furnished. This was an estate of new beginnings, the home of a man rebuilding a life from the ashes of ruin just as he had witnessed his aunt do in his formative years.

The markings of tradition and history that pervaded Downton were absent here, replaced by a deliberate homage to personal taste and freedom. This was a residence by choice, purposefully selected and sought out rather than assumed as a matter of birthright. It was so very different from the place in which she had dwelled her entire life. Yet it was vastly and gloriously liberating. Mary followed Charles and Lady Catherine up the steps to her quarters, a room of muted yellows, whites and pale blues that suited the woman immensely. The furnishings were much simpler than Mary would have anticipated, yet they matched the demeanor of a teacher, a headmistress, a lady who had survived and carved a meaningful life out of meager scraps tossed at her feet. A small table sat by a window overlooking a garden, a welcoming stone bench set tastefully under a rather large oak tree catching Mary's eye immediately as she strolled towards the transparent pane. The view was easy to admire, and she wished acutely that she had paid better attention to all of Granny's lectures on the various names of flowers as she absorbed their beauty from afar. She could not help but smile amidst surrounding such as these, the aroma of fresh daisies peeking out from a china vase by Lady Catherine's bedside tickling her nose. At least she knew what to call those blossoms.

"I do enjoy that view, my dear," Lady Catherine sighed, strolling up to her side as she gazed out the window in near reverence. "Sometimes I imagine that I can smell the lavender from here."

"An old nanny of ours would put sachets of lavender in our pillowcases when we were young," Mary reminisced, smiling at a forgotten memory resurfaced. "She swore it helped us sleep better, but it always made Edith sneeze."

The older woman laughed softly, turning towards Mary conspiratorially.

"I have slept with lavender in my pillow for as long as I can remember," Lady Catherine confessed. "There is something so wild yet comforting about the scent, if you ask me. The combination makes it utterly irresistible."

Wild yet comforting...the words echoed in her mind as she dared a glance in his direction.

And utterly irresistible.

A woman of rather muted features then entered and approached, introducing herself as Nurse Hathaway as she ventured to help get Lady Catherine settled. Mary and Charles left the room to afford them some privacy, descending the stairs at a leisurely manner as she continually attempted to note the small details of his choice of home.

"Where are your other servants?" Mary inquired, wondering just how large a staff Charles employed.

"We have very few, actually," he answered evenly. "Besides Ajit and Ishana, I employ three grooms, two gardeners and one housekeeper."

"What?" Mary voiced, rather astonished at the relatively small staff for a decently-large estate. "No footmen? No lady's maid for your aunt or valet for you?"

Charles chuckled at her immediate reaction, shaking his head gently as he led her into the library.

"Mary, my aunt has not had a lady's maid in over forty years," he explained. "And she has no desire to be fussed over whatsoever. I am certain her new nurse will be in for more than she ever bargained for with Aunt Catherine. Contrary to popular opinion, she is quite a particular woman."

"All women are somewhat particular, you know," she returned, the small flash of a challenge in her eyes.

"Oh, yes," he answered with raised brows. "Some more than others."

Her brows caught his implication perfectly, throwing back to him yet another question perplexing her.

"And what's your excuse? For not having a valet, I mean."

"I grew up taking care of myself, Mary," he answered softly, his eyes casting down to the carpet momentarily. "It just seemed a bit excessive for me to employ a valet when I am perfectly capable of dressing and undressing myself."

She shoved down such images forming in her mind before they could distract her from the conversation at hand.

"Besides, our world is changing, you know," Charles continued, a serious weight settling on his tone as he looked upon her sincerely. "It is rather amazing that your father has been able to keep an estate as large as Downton functioning as smoothly as it does."

Images of the heated arguments between her father and Matthew over the management of Downton ran rampant, singing rough edges of her memory as she attempted to dull their potency. It was a wonder the family had not been torn asunder by the rather marked disagreements concerning this issue. Instead, it had been ripped apart by the heartless hand of death.

"He nearly lost it," she offered quietly, her eyes meeting his tentatively at this confession. "My mother's fortune was depleted in keeping Downton afloat, and it was Matthew's vision and Tom's practicality that convinced my father that modernization was a necessity for survival."

Her confession surprised him, and he encircled a soft hand within his.

"It was good of him to accept their advice so readily," he stated, a strong hint of admiration lacing his tone. "Many men would have had too much pride to do so."

"Believe me, there was nothing readily accepted," she corrected with a firm glance. "There were many terse conversations over the matter, unfortunately. Both Matthew and my father were rather stubborn about everything."

"That cannot have been easy for you," he put forth, stroking the top of her knuckles with his thumb. "Having to straddle the wall of conflict between your husband and your father."

"It wasn't," she admitted honestly. "I felt as though I was being torn in half at times."

"What a horrid position for you," Charles pondered, working through facts in his mind as he continued to stroke her hand. "How were they able to save Downton with no money?"

Not this…she hated even thinking of the matter. Dark eyes cast themselves down to the floor, unable to look at him as a deeper cut cried out to be tended.

"Matthew came into a rather sizable fortune himself," Mary finally replied, drawing breath to bolster her faltering courage. "It was left to him by the father of his late fiancé."

"That sounds rather complicated," he mused, attempting to draw her gaze back to his own as he sensed her discomfort.

"It was, rather," she admitted freely, finally squelching the insistent churning of her stomach at this line of inquiry. "He came into this money quite unexpectedly and was unsure of what to do with it for some time."

"How could he have been unsure when your family was in such need?" Charles questioned, true confusing overtaking his features at this new information. Mary sighed heavily. She had made peace with this episode of her marriage in her own manner, but Matthew's initial reluctance to save Downton still bore enough venom to sting if she examined it too closely. How honor and a duty to conscience could be prioritized over family and practicality had never made sense to her, but Matthew's values had in some areas been different than her own. She had ardently respected and loved him for his idealism and goodness, even if at times she had wanted to throttle the virtues right out of the man. Those senses along with a healthy dose of stubbornness on both of their parts had kept them separated years longer than they should have been.

"Matthew felt quite guilty over the circumstances of their engagement and her death for some time," Mary finally stated flatly. "Do you remember when I told you on the train how she…"

"She died after seeing the two of you kiss," he finished for her, noting the exhale of relief she breathed at not having to speak the words herself. "I must say, Mary, your life has not exactly been free of twists and turns."

"An understatement if I've ever heard one," Mary mused, attempting to lighten her own mood a bit before moving back into tender territory. "She died from the Spanish flu, you understand, but Matthew blamed himself for months. He believed that she lost the will to live after seeing us together, that he—that he and I were responsible for her death."

Dear God, she had not expected this—this overflow of emotion too long untapped over yet another episode she had unsuccessfully attempted to bury. Mary forcefully absorbed her own tears, refusing to allow any more to be shed over this unfortunate chapter in the saga of her life. Enough was enough.

"And that's when he told you that the two of you were cursed," Charles reasoned, his conclusion affirmed in silence as she nodded her head twice.

"He thought that he deserved to be unhappy—that we both did, actually," Mary admitted cautiously, certain of the response she would receive from the man standing across from her. "Don't judge him for this, Charles, please! Matthew was such a good and honorable man. He and I just never seemed to be granted an easy road to travel."

Speaking of understatements.

Charles bit his tongue, pursing lips together deliberately to halt words of reproach aimed at her late husband from escaping him. He wished at that moment he could shake the man, make Matthew Crawley see just how deeply his careless speech delivered out of guilt and grief would sear into a soul more fragile than he seemed to realize. But any words against him would have the same effect upon Mary that Charles was attempting to avoid at all costs. They would wound her, he knew, and nothing was worth that. She had been wounded enough in her life.

"I'm glad it all worked out for you in the end," he offered, kissing her hand gently before adding. "That you were granted some true happiness together."

She could only nod in response, the impact of his sentiment rocking already overly-sensitized emotions.

"We were both just so stupid at times," she breathed, a rueful laugh escaping its cages before it could be captured. "It cost us dearly."

"Love always costs something," Charles whispered, the slight twitch of his mouth betraying a note of emotion he struggled desperately to conceal. But she had seen it, had noted it, even if she was not yet ready to entertain exactly what it meant.

* * *

 

 Lunch had indeed been delightful, and Mary determined she would mention nothing of the high quality of the cooking here at Rufforth Hall to Mrs. Patmore. There was no telling what Downton's cook would have to say if she learned that a foreign woman could prepare a salmon mousse that would rival her own. Mary could not help but smile, however, at the thoughts of Mrs. Patmore serving up an Indian feast for her family.

What would her grandmother have to say about that?

They walked towards the stables afterwards, the pride Charles held for his horses and their quarters evident as she watched two Cleveland Bays being led into their paddocks. She was also relishing the sense of absolute privacy this place afforded, the smaller household staff making her feel fairly secure that no prying eyes were upon them as he took her hand and led her to the precise field he so wanted her to see.

She was there in all her splendor, a breath-taking creature of ebony, the sunlight making her coat shimmer magically as she galloped freely in the grass. A secret thrill shot up Mary's thighs as she watched the black mane fly freely, unhindered by bridles or any other constraints, characteristic pointed ears setting this horse apart from any other residing at Rufforth Hall. Kala was the prize of this estate, and she seemed to know it, slowing to a prance as she eyed the humans observing her actions in a vague interest.

"She's magnificent," Mary uttered, unable to take her eyes from the horse as she took up a rather unusual gait. "Did you teach her to do that?"

"No," Charles admitted, "Although I do practice with her." He paused, gazing at her intently as he offered, "Would you like me to have one of the grooms bring her around for you?"

She instinctively knew this was an invitation extended to very few, a heavy measure of trust and feeling on his part granting her this opportunity if she desired to take it.

"No," Mary answered, rather surprised by her own answer. "I enjoy watching her like this—free to run as she pleases."

He smiled at her, his arm softly moving around her waist as he agreed.

"So do I."

She did not have the heart to yet speak of Roquefort's threat, unwilling to mar this moment of peace as a breeze bearing the slight scent of autumn billowed her skirt and sneaked under her hair. They could speak of such matters later at Downton within walls that had sheltered more than their fair share of strife. She would not ruin this place with the mention of ugliness from an external environment.

Not this place.

They traversed the grounds in an easy silence, allowing the wind and their hands to converse freely as a wave of peace enveloped her. She almost felt as if she were a different woman away from the all-seeing eyes of Downton, one not bound by expectations of status and duty but free just to be. She had felt this same liberation on her honeymoon, when she had been afforded time with her husband untouched by the constraints of her life. Spying a rabbit made her grin, wishing for a moment that George could have been here to see the small animal. He would love it here.

She loved it here.

Charles finally drew her into a grove of trees, stroking her face in a manner so intimate she thought she might melt from the sheer tenderness of it. His kiss nearly shattered her, the softness of his touch matching the caresses he somehow flitted across her heart, her mouth responding in kind without any coherent thought. She felt quite sheltered, protected from anything that could harm her as she willfully relaxed her senses into the alluring oblivion of this man--this man.

Oh, Dear God.

"Would you enjoy an excursion to the lake," he cut in, the husky timbre of his voice wrapping itself around her reason even further.

"I'll have to change first, you know," she replied groggily, leaning into him slightly. His eyes widened in delight, his grin suddenly infectious as he realized what she had just admitted.

"You brought your swimming attire?"

Her nod merely added to his delight, and he kissed her soundly once more before leading her back to his home. Her body began a nervous jig as logic began to knock insistently. She was by no means unaware of the slight danger this excursion presented, being alone with him in attire more revealing than was probably prudent. Charles had assured her he had no desire to expose her to any further scandal. He had proven himself to be a man of his word, and she had no doubt that he would allow her to set the boundaries between them this afternoon.

And that was precisely what frightened her.

* * *

 

Goose-flesh covered her skin as she observed herself in the mirror, the silken bathing frock covering her woolen jersey swimsuit admirably. She held the matching bathing cap in nervous hands, taking a deep breath again as she again took in her reflection. There was nothing risqué about her swimwear, everything essential was covered admirably and remained steadfastly within the bounds of decency. Women flocked to the shore in such swimwear, their bodies in full view of anyone on hand, for that matter. But this lake was private. And Mary suddenly began to wonder if she would actually have the courage to step foot in the water, after all.

She glanced around the bedroom in which she had changed yet again, basking in the warm coral tones that gave the impression of a continual sunset. The room was not grand but rather bordered on the exotic, small statues most assuredly from India displayed tastefully in an open invitation to gaze upon their beauty. An amulet of amber drew her attention, commanding the notice of anyone who would venture near. It was stunning, the gold tones crying out to be touched even as they were protected from human hands in a glass case.

Had this been Rashmi's?

Mary was suddenly sure of the fact, deducing quickly this had most likely been a gift from Charles to his bride. The jewelry acquired a holy air immediately, and she twisted her wedding ring unconsciously around her finger as she examined it further. She could imagine how stunning this would look against the woman's skin, how the Indian sunlight would make it gleam all the more. Then she wondered. Hands nervously opened a drawer just there, somehow knowing, searching, for she kept one in a similar location.

And there it was.

A photograph, one obviously held dear as attested to by worn edges. She was smiling brightly, this beautiful woman who seemed so full of life as she gazed happily at her photographer. What had Charles told her Rashmika meant? Ray of light? The name and meaning he had chosen for his daughter must have stemmed from her that of her mother. Had she ever smiled in a photograph, Mary wondered, finding the notion of always looking so stern suddenly ridiculous. What would George deduce of her personality if a picture of his mother were all he had as evidence? The thought made her uncomfortable, and she suddenly felt like an interloper holding Rashmi's image in her hand.

She replaced it gently, sliding the drawer shut upon the past as she so often did in her own bedroom. Her feet then led her across thick carpeting to a small bookshelf, her fingers stroking the spines of volumes in a script she could not understand. Hindi, perhaps? Mary drew one from the shelf, admiring the golden embossed lettering even though she had no inkling what she would discover within its pages. She dared a peak, feeling again like an intruder peering into yet another private corner of Charles Blake's life.

She very nearly dropped it.

Her heart began to pound, swallowing suddenly becoming an effort as she gazed upon an illustration too vivid to be misunderstood. Her hands turned another page, and yet another, her mind understanding that this book needed no translation for its meaning to be understood. Did she actually hold within her grasp a copy of _The Kama Sutra_?

Her skin heated of its own accord, fingers continually leafing through pages as if on a mission even as her logic screamed at her to put it back from whence it came. But the pictures were mesmerizing, their openness and artistry so very foreign to her English sensibilities that she could not seem to walk away. Her heart began to pound in her temples, a slight tingling in her breasts alerting her that she was trespassing on quicksand that could envelop her all too quickly. A soft knock on the door then made her jump, the book actually flying from her hands before she caught it in midair, returning it hastily to its abandoned position on the shelf. She tried desperately to control her dropping stomach, feeling unreasonably like a child caught playing with her mother's jewelry as she moved towards the door.

Seeing him standing there draped in an embroidered robe of browns and burgundies did nothing to cool her flushed complexion, his eyes actually widening in concern at her heightened color.

"Are you feeling well, Mary?" he questioned, pushing the door wider to take in her complete appearance.

"Of course," she shot back quickly, forcing a smile that did not fool him. "I am perfectly well."

Charles eyed her in disbelief, taking a step in her direction as his raised brows demanded an explanation.

"I'm just a bit nervous, that's all," she admitted, unwilling to confess her previous viewing material as she placed the blame elsewhere. "I haven't been swimming in some time."

He smiled reassuringly, offering his arm as he turned them in the direction of the steps.

"Don't worry. The lake is not very deep, and I'll make certain you don't venture out too far."

If he only knew the type of venturing that was truly occupying her mind at the moment.

She felt odd, somewhat exposed as they traversed a path he knew well to the lake, set back in a rather secluded area of the grounds that seemed to be devoid of any disturbances to its natural state. Here wildflowers roamed freely, carpeting their journey as Mary inexplicably held on to his arm as a lifeline. He guided her expertly, occasionally pointing out a favored tree or the sighting of a squirrel, steering her away from muddy patches until they reached the shoreline. It was a small lake, warmly inviting as sunlight skipping in delight across its surface beckoned her forward. Small pebbles lined the edge, forcing her to watch her feet carefully as she slowly removed her shoes. Why she suddenly felt naked with that small action was beyond any form of reason.

Charles had already removed his robe, standing unashamed in his swimsuit as she took a moment to stare at him. He was just as she had imagined, even the traces of his scar visible through the top straps of his suit only accentuating his attraction. He smiled in her direction, dimples issuing her an invitation her to shed her outer frock. She took a deep breath and did so, trembling in spite of herself as she noted the appreciation apparent in his gaze as she now stood in nothing but her swimsuit and bathing cap.

"You are beautiful, you know," he breathed in sincere admiration, a shudder rocking her knees at the impact of his declaration. "Are you ready to get in?"

"I hope so," she admitted, looking back across the surface that was in continual motion. She dared to slide a foot into the shallows, shivering slightly as the pleasant coolness that teased her ankle. The other foot followed as he stood patiently, content to let her move forward at her own pace into these unknown waters. She soon found herself knee-deep, pausing to catch her breath as her body adjusted to the change in climate.

"It's actually a bit easier if you just dive in," Charles finally advised, her eyes watching him warily at this advice.

"Says someone who jumped into Loch Ness in pursuit of a monster," she quirked back, watching him smile in appreciation.

"Trust me, Mary," he returned, extending a hand in her direction. "These waters are much warmer than those."

She took his hand haltingly, closing her eyes a moment to block out anything but the sensation of water upon her skin as her legs bade her to follow him further. The lake's silken fingers grazed her thighs, inching up to her naval until they completely enveloped her waist. An insistent tugging kept motioning her in deeper, the cool, alluring touch crawling up her rib cage as it teased her breasts. He stopped her there, the surface now skimming her shoulders as small currents rocked her body gently. Mary didn't know what to say, feeling slightly wicked submerged in a lake like this with a grinning Charles Blake standing so daringly close. Before she could formulate another thought, he went under, swimming behind her as she attempted to twirl her body in the direction she sensed him moving. Water crested against her hip, hands grasping her shoulders from behind before she could react.

"You haven't gone under yet," he teased into her ear.

"And if I decide not to?" she questioned, turning her neck until her nose nearly touched his.

"Then I'll just have to change your mind," he grinned, scooping her legs up in his arms and taking her under the water before she could formulate a rebuttal. They emerged, one face very pleased with himself, the other sputtering like an angry feline. She splashed him mercilessly when he released his legs, forcing him under again much to her chagrin as she sought to locate him futilely. Then frustration began to be overshadowed by a mild sense of panic as she began to fear he had stayed under too long. If he had gotten snagged by something on the bottom, if something had knocked him unconscious?

His surprising ascent mere inches from her face made her jump, and she shoved his chest forcefully, knocking him backwards into the lake as his laugh just irritated her further. When he dared rise to his feet again, he held out his arms in a peace offering, watching her warily as he dared to allow one hand to slick back the hair from his brow.

"Truce?" he questioned, pausing his progress before moving any further towards her.

She raised her brow in response, angling her chin slightly as she retorted, "You, Charles Blake, are a cad."

"You've called me that before, you know," he grinned, his sheer nerve spurring her on.

"You must not have heard me very clearly the first time," she responded, eyeing him directly as he waded a bit closer.

"Oh, yes," he whispered, his roguish grin coming out from hiding. "I listen to everything you say, my lady."

"Then there just must be no hope for you," she replied. "You're doomed to remain a cad forever."

"Well, if that is to be my fate," he began, sliding up to her quickly, "I suppose it would just be wise to accept it."

"Can one be a cad and be wise simultaneously," she breathed, the water beading on his skin constricting her throat slightly as she haltingly played with a lock of his hair.

"I don't know," he voiced huskily, both of her hands making their way to his chest. "Why don't you tell me?"

That was all she could stand.

Their mouths met in a hungered frenzy, the coolness of the water somehow having no effect of the lightening heat that shot through to her core. His arms bound her tightly in an instant, raising her slightly from the water's surface as he held her eye-level with him. She grasped his neck in abandon, mesmerized by the texture of wet lips stroking her own, lost to the ministrations of his seasoned tongue sending her into a frenzy.

Quicksand, indeed.

This was sheer madness, but she reveled in it, memorizing the feel of how his hair felt between her fingers when wet, sampling the flavors of his mouth as if it were a delicacy prepared just for her pleasure. He continued to hold her tightly, her feet drifting just above the lake's bottom freeing one to stroke up and down his leg. She felt his shudder, oddly emboldened by it, as she tugged his lower lip with her teeth.

"Good God," he breathed, drawing back just enough for her to see the blazing intensity in his eyes.

And she had put it there.

The knowledge spurred her forward. His mouth was on a wild descent down her neck, his lips feasting upon the surface of her shoulders in a manner that set her on fire. She clasped his head closer to her, begging wordlessly for him to continue this erotic hypnosis. She pushed herself up in the water, wrapping her legs about his waist securely as his ministrations moved to the neckline of her swimsuit, feathering kisses rocking her head back as she attempted to draw a full breath. One strong arm continued to clasp her back to him fiercely, but another descended, cupping her bottom gently.

She did cry out at this contact, taking his face within her hands as she kissed him with a passion pent-up for far too long. She was soaring, embracing this new thrill of life with everything she had. Kisses were becoming sloppier, hands more daring as new terrain was explored. But he suddenly stopped, gripping her tightly to him even as he could not look her in the eye. His breathing was heavy, and each exhale tickling her neck as she clasped his head to her.

"Do you have any idea just how badly I want you?" he managed, finally chancing a direct glance into her own eyes, the blackness of her own desire staring back at him. She could formulate no response just yet, wondering just why he had stopped to tell her this when she had erected no barriers between them.

She then grinned daringly, pulling back slightly herself as she responded. "I think I have a pretty good idea."

He couldn't help but chuckle, the fact that she was still wrapped against his waist becoming even more pronounced as he replied, "I daresay you do."

His expression once again became serious as he set her down gently, stroking her arm once her feet touched the bottom as his other hand fastened around her waist.

"Why have you stopped?" she questioned boldly, feeling a bit unsteady on legs that had just been snaked around this man quite intimately.

"Mary," he began, swallowing deliberately as he sought the right words, "When I make love to you, I don't want there to be any ghosts between us."

His honesty both stoked the fire already blazing even as it made her pause. She looked at him, noting how he was searching her face carefully for any reaction before he continued.

"I don't want either of us running from anything or anyone, but rather running towards something wonderful. I want it to be about us and only us, an expression of what we feel for each other. I'm just not certain you're ready for that"

He kissed her forehead slowly, his lips brushing her skin in a manner that made her ache all the more. She closed her eyes, keeping his face close to hers as a part of her fought against what he was saying.

"And I would be a cad in the worst sense if I took advantage of you."

His words brought her steadily back to reality, a reality still so new she was having a bit of difficulty taking it all in. His eyes beckoned her to remain locked on his, the hand in her hair now caressing her cheek in a manner that called her to lean into it. She nodded wordlessly at his assertions, there being no need to affirm that he was correct. He knew it…she knew it. But there was something of which she was unsure.

"And what of you?" she voiced throatily, still feeling quite wobbly in more ways than one. "Are you ready for this?"

Her question startled him, the direct honesty piercing him as he understood how vulnerable he had suddenly become. She wanted to know what he felt for her, had asked him clearly if he was ready to commit to her and take her as his own. Her reaction frightened him, but he had no option in this circumstance. His slow nod preceded his answer, his gaze taking in the surface of the water as he feared what he might see upon her face.

"Yes," he finally uttered, his confession marking something inside her. She cupped his face again, turning his eyes up towards hers as she took in this wondrous declaration that both beckoned and terrified her. She kissed the small lines of his forehead, noting the shudder that rocked him was even stronger than the one she had felt in the throes of passion.

This man loved her. Charles Blake loved her.

The realization felt somehow like a spring flower daring to open up inside her, braving the elements for a chance to bloom in all its splendor. How was this possible? She was unsure of how to respond, her feelings still so jumbled yet clarifying at a rate that was rather alarming.

"Be patient with me," she whispered, the only words that fit the puzzle pieces of emotion she could somehow not yet fit together. He soothed her instantly with arms that encompassed her, held her.

Loved her.

"Always," he breathed, kissing the top of her head. And as she rested in his embrace, she realized that the waters here were indeed warmer than expected.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles shares more of his past with Mary, and Anna goes into labor.

"What brought you back to England?"

Charles mulled the question thoughtfully, drawing the warmth that was Mary closer to him as they sat on his veranda watching the sun continually sink closer to the tree tops.

"I mean, I know that you returned to care for your aunt," she continued, speaking her questions into his shoulder, "but was that the only reason?"

"That's not reason enough?" he returned, a part of him unwilling to disturb the utter perfection of this moment to discuss his past.

"It is if it's truly your only motivation," she tossed back, pushing herself up just enough to look at him. He had to kiss her then, the proximity of her lips to his own giving him no choice in the matter. He fingers whispered across his cheekbones as their mouths drew apart. He wanted to freeze this moment forever.

"It was what finally spurred me to do it," he admitted, resuming his tracing of lazy circles upon her shoulder. "I suppose I also felt liberated by the death of my father."

"That's a rather sad statement," she observed, concern etching her brows. "That the death of your father would be liberating."

"It is quite sad," he agreed readily, drawing her as close to him as he could. "But there is really no other honest way of putting it, unfortunately."

"Did you form no bond at all with him?" she ventured, looking at him in concern. "Not in all of your time together in India?"

She felt his laugh more than she heard it, the complete lack mirth answering her question soundly.

"My father did not form bonds, Mary," he stated with a sigh. "Not with me, not my mother, not even his sister." He pursed his lips together slightly, turning his face back to the sunset as he continued. "Do you know that he did not stand up for her at all? When she told him what had happened to her? When she begged him to speak to their father and take her side?"

Mary knew immediately of what he spoke, a shiver running down her legs at the thought of having no one in your corner after...

Thank God she had had Anna.

"He was the first to condemn her," he remarked, shaking his head at the man who had given him life. "He was certainly not without sin, but was more than eager to cast the first stone."

"I'm sorry," she offered, the only words she could manage for such a situation.

"His own sister, Mary," he continued, staring at hues of burnt orange and pink crisscrossing the sky. "When she had been violated by his friend, when she needed him so badly."

"It's no wonder you had a difficult time with him," Mary conceded quietly, resting her hand upon his chest as her eyes took him in. "That would be difficult to forgive."

"I'm not sure he ever quite forgave me, either, to be honest" he mused, exhaling with force.

"What on earth did you do to need his forgiveness?" she questioned, completely unprepared for the answer she received.

"I stole one of his horses."

The look of unadulterated shock upon her face was nearly comical, spurring him on to explain before she even asked.

"I left the estate, you see," he began. "I couldn't stand to stay there one more minute, and he told me that if I left, he would cut me off without a cent. So, one night, I sneaked out, and I took one of his prize stallions with me."

"Did you sell him?" she inquired, still having a difficult time reconciling the man she had come to know with the facts he was sharing.

"For a fairly decent sum, actually," he confessed, one hand trailing gently up and down her back.

"And that's when you went to Bombay," she surmised, fitting the blocks of information together quickly before they could become disjointed. "When you fought those men."

He nodded in confirmation, turning his full attention towards her as he watched what he had just revealed filter inside. She brought her gaze back to his, eyeing him steadily as she formulated a question that made his stomach sink.

"Why would he cut you off in the first place, if you were his only heir?"

He squeezed her hand, staring into eyes he only hoped would continue to look upon him with such trust.

"Because I nearly killed him once," Charles breathed, the words reaching her ears but not quite filtering into her mind.

Then they hit her, and she pushed herself up, staring at him in a wordless plea for an explanation.

"The day after Rashmi and Rashmika died," he began, concentrating fully on not dropping his eyes from hers. "I was half-drunk, you understand, but I still should have had more control."

"What happened?" she finally asked, the slightest stroke of her fingers edging him further. The darkness that always accompanied the memories threatened him, edging its way around the unspeakable serenity to which he now clung.

"He told me that one day I would realize just how lucky I was that they were now out of my life," he uttered, his gaze dropping of its own accord. "That I had no business marrying a girl like that in the first place, and he would have never allowed his estate to pass to a half-blood, anyway. I lost it."

She closed her eyes, aching for the void in his life that should have never been created.

"I hit him, Mary. Hard."

Dear God.

The sun cast a reddish tint across his hair, beckoning her to touch it…to keep him here with her where his past could do him no harm. That this gentle man could ever hurt anyone was unfathomable, but she knew he spoke only the truth. Loving her was already costing him, the pain of his confession so evident in the lines of his face.

"I never truly hated anyone until that moment," he admitted, his sincerity punctuated by a slight tremor in his hand. "It terrified me. I knew then that I had to leave."

Her body shuddered once in response, pushing her even further into his form.

"It's alright," she soothed other words escaping her as the full extent of what he was sharing continued to unfurl. But it wasn't alright, she knew. This was a part of him still broken, never properly mended but patched together as best as he could manage on his own.

"Ajit stopped me," he muttered, seeing her nod that gave him permission to continue. "Without him and Ishana, I don't know if I would have survived those days right after…"

Arms embraced him, holding him in a manner that held no judgment. He could not fathom it, just why she remained here with him when she could obviously command any man she so desired. His arms gathered her close, his overwhelming need for this woman almost frightening. Charles shook his head, still unable look clearly into the murky waters of those days that had rolled by in a self-induced fog. People had appeared no more than phantasmal figures, contorted shaped against the black backdrop of his grief. Only a few faces stuck out to him, his father unfazed by his son's loss and pain…Rashmi's sister asking if he had chosen a name for his daughter she could write in remembrance…Ajit bringing him inside when he had laid down inebriated in the throes of a monsoon, praying he would drown in the tumult. He could recall the incessant ticking of the clock in his bedroom, a pain so cutting that he was certain he bled… The overpowering need to hit and demolish.

"Grief is indeed an ugly thing, Mary," he finally voiced, staring at the utter beauty before him as he etched her features into his mind.

"I broke a music box, just after Matthew's funeral," she admitted quietly, her confession washing over him like velvet. "I just had to throw something, and it was there."

He actually did chuckle this time, kissing her forehead lightly.

"I destroyed my piano."

He couldn't help but laugh at her expression, wondering if he had ever seen her eyes quite that owl-like.

"I think you win," she offered softly.

"I know I win," he replied, his eyes leaving her little room to doubt his true meaning. She crawled atop him, laying body to body as her mouth claimed his. Her lips took in the ugliness just confessed, digesting the black void of his past as her tongue probed him deeply. Fingertips whisked away harshness, swirling the colors of his life together in an artistry that matched the glory of the evening sky.

"I'm not afraid of your sharp edges, Charles," she mused, her breath caressing his lips as their noses touched softly.

"I'm glad," he breathed, smiling even more as her thumb traced his dimple. "I'm so very glad."

She burrowed into his side, her head resting on his shoulder as they watched the retreating elements of day in silence. Crickets had already taken up their evensong, accentuated arhythmically by frogs lingering near the lake. He realized slowly that she slept, the steadiness of her breathing on his neck a gift he knew he did not deserve. His drew the forgotten blanket up over her, the covering shoved down until it had engulfed only her feet. How well she fit him, completed him, made him happy in a manner he believed had been forever buried with his wife.

"I love you, Mary," he whispered into her hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender carried by the breeze he would now forever associate with her. And he sat there, holding her in utter contentment until the final flecks of gold left the horizon.

* * *

 

Mary's feet drug towards the car, the thoughts of returning to a home full of guests after the serenity of the afternoon nearly maddening. She breathed the air deeply, filling her lungs greedily as if she could store it for later use.

"I wish we didn't have to leave just yet," she admitted, smiling up at him as he assisted her into the car.

"So do I," Charles replied, kissing her hand soundly before shutting the door.

The journey back to Downton commenced quietly, and she sat as closely to him as the automobile would safely allow. Her nap on the veranda left her a bit groggy and warm all over, a rather delicious combination that made her body want to melt into his. They had shared so much over the course of the day that words seemed unnecessary under the circumstances, the sound of the car's engine and their breathing filling the space nicely.

Was he driving at a slower pace than he had this morning?

The notion made her smile as she silently took in the stars beginning to dot the sky. She wished the trip home were longer.

Mr. Barrow met them upon their return, the moonlight's glow becoming threatened by clouds moving across its surface. She felt girlish, wanting to sneak around the corner to play in the dark rather than walk into the big house and assume her identity. When was the last time she really noticed the cricket song here at Downton, Mary wondered, standing quietly a moment to take it in before such small details would be taken from her. When was the last time anything had felt this good?

The door flew open before any of them reached it, Isobel moving briskly into the night air with a medical bag in hand.

"Mr. Blake," Mrs. Crawley called out, "I saw you pull up and wondered if you might do me a favor."

Mary felt his body start in surprise, but his reply was even and direct.

"Of course, Mrs. Crawley. What is it you need?"

"I must get to the Bates's home as soon as possible," the older woman answered, noting the look of concern on Mary's face. "Anna has gone into labor."

"Is Dr. Clarkson on his way?" Mary questioned, concern for Mrs. Bates drowning out every other thought in her head.

Isobel paused, shrugging her shoulders unconsciously.

"Dr. Clarkson is nearly an hour away tending to a more difficult birth," Isobel replied, watching her daughter-in-law's eyes round quickly. "I'm afraid it's up to me and Nurse Jennings."

"Then I'll help you," Mary offered, the words out of her mouth before she had fully thought them through. She was completely unsure of what she could actually do to assist, but determined to be on hand to ensure that nothing went wrong. As if she possessed that sort of power.

"I could use another pair of hands," Isobel admitted, eyeing Mary with precision. "But are you certain you are up to this, Mary? You don't have to be, you know."

Both sets of eyes looked at her, attempting to see into her in order to ascertain if she were ready for the task at hand. Mary straightened her spine, fighting down nerves that threatened her resolve as she looked back to her son's grandmother.

"Yes, I do," Mary spoke, clenching her hands imperceptibly as she swallowed down her fear. "This is Anna."

This was Anna.

Charles had not said a word, but she sensed his apprehension, avoiding his eyes lest his concern be her undoing.

"Alright, then," Isobel agreed, grasping one of Mary's hands and giving it a squeeze. "Shall we be off?"

Mary nodded before she could change her mind, night air and crickets forced aside as the specter of childbirth at Downton engulfed her in a fog.

"Barrow, please inform my parents of both my and Mr. Blake's whereabouts," Mary ordered calmly, climbing into the car after her mother-in-law. She kept reminding herself that giving birth was a daily occurrence, that Anna should be in no real danger, that she and Bates would be blessed by a healthy infant and raise that child happily together. But this was Downton, and no matter what other mantra she repeated until it rang in her head, certain thoughts kept trumping her reason.

Another baby. One year later.

Oh, God.

They arrived rather quickly, Isobel's sharp knock answered quickly by Mr. Bates himself. Heavy lines of concern wore on his features, the smile of welcome he attempted not quite reaching his eyes as he motioned them inside.

"Thank you for coming, Mrs. Crawley," Bates stated evenly, walking her in the direction of Anna's whereabouts. "Lady Mary, Mr. Blake, I was not expecting you."

His confusion was palpable, such an expression on the dependably stoic man hitting home the seriousness of the situation.

"Lady Mary will be assisting me," Isobel chimed in, laying a hand of reassurance on the arm of the prospective father. "I thought her presence might bring some comfort to Mrs. Bates."

John nodded in agreement, smiling at Mary as he stated, "I'm sure Anna will be most glad of your company, my lady."

"And Mr. Blake can keep you company so you don't drive yourself mad," Mrs. Crawley continued, her smile just a bit too bright to be genuine. "The waiting process is always so terribly difficult for the man, you know. It's best not to go it alone."

Mary's heart suddenly plummeted as she realized what Charles was about to endure. He would be here, helplessly awaiting news of a birth while watching another man look forward to meeting his child. Her eyes gripped his in a slight panic, his eyes so full of a myriad of emotions they appeared almost multi-colored.

"That is most kind of you, Mr. Blake," Bates returned.

Mary noted a slight tremble in her mother-in-law's hand, the fact that this could not be easy for Isobel either hitting her with renewed force. Yes, Isobel had delivered her fair share of babies over the course of a year, but none here. None associated with Downton. None assisted by the very woman who had given birth to her grandson just over a year ago. She caught her eye quickly, the flash of understanding instantaneous as a loud moan from Anna beckoned them towards the door. Their hands locked for a moment—an acknowledgement, a reassurance shared between women whose hearts bore matching scars.

"Are you certain about this, Mary?" Isobel questioned, her glance straying from the door panel to the deep eyes of her daughter-in-law.

"No," Mary admitted softly, dropping her chin a moment in thought. "But I'm not leaving."

Her hand was squeezed, her statement approved as they entered the bedroom where Anna awaited them.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Mary demanded upon seeing Anna walking the perimeter of the room, an arm clasped in tight possession around her middle.

"I can't lay down just yet," Anna replied between breaths, laying one hand upon the wall as Mary rushed to her side. "It feels better to keep moving."

Mary looked to Isobel, the question written plainly on her features as the older woman nodded calmly.

"It's perfectly alright, Mary," Mrs. Crawley assured her. "Some women swear that staying in motion both shortens and eases their labor. There's no harm in allowing Mrs. Bates to walk as long as she is able."

Mary looked to Anna's smiling face, stray golden hairs from her braid clinging stubbornly to the damp skin of her face.

"Alright," Mary acquiesced, feeling horribly unsuited to be in the room. "But you must let me help you."

She took Anna's arm upon her own, following the pace set by the expectant mother as they roamed the room's length together.

"It's really good of you to be here," Anna confided as they approached the furthest corner. "I know this can't be easy."

God, no—this was not easy.

"You've seen me through so much, Anna," she breathed, the corners of her mouth twitching delicately as she tightened her grip. "More so than some members of my own family. How could I not be here for you?"

A contraction hit her then, and the pressure the smaller woman exerted on Mary's arm took her by surprise.

"Do you need to lie down?" Marry inquired hastily, looking to Isobel even as her words were directed towards Anna.

"Not yet," Mrs. Bates answered before anyone attempted to do it for her. "It's passed now."

But the woman's body betrayed her, her legs tipping back as an odd expression crossed her features.

"What happened?" Mary implored, moving so she was standing directly in front of Anna as she grasped her other arm to keep her upright.

"I'm not sure," Mrs. Bates replied, shaking her head in confusion. "It felt like the baby just got heavier."

"He's moving down the birth canal," Isobel explained gently, crossing the room to the other women. "It might be a good time to get you settled now, dear. The pressure is only going to increase from here on out."

Anna nodded, an air of nervousness rippling across Mary's skin as she sought desperately for anything to do.

"Can I get you some water?" she offered, wanting to escape the room yet afraid of leaving for even a minute.

"I already have a pitcher for all of us," the nurse responded, looking directly to Mary. "I believe we are in for a long night, my lady."

Mary stood beside the bed, taking two steps back as those more knowledgeable hovered over Anna protectively. She clasped nervous hands together, keeping her eyes planted upon her surroundings lest her mind wander too freely. A harsh cry ripped her from her musings, pushing Mary's feet to the foot of the bed in haste as she stared helplessly at Anna's contorted face. It was Sybil then, her sister's body seizing repeatedly as her mother and Tom tried through tears to pull her physically back to them. Then it became her, screaming loudly to swallow back the black terror she felt bringing her son into the world alone. Mary shook her head, shutting her eyes in an attempt to halt the cacophony of chaos as she gripped the bedpost.

"Anna," she voiced deliberately, Isobel shooting her a quick look of concern.

"Yes…it's Anna," Mrs. Crawley whispered, her words targeting the lost, pale young woman standing directly behind her.

"Anna," Mary repeated silently to herself, her lips moving slightly at the effort. Anna—a woman who would pull through this unscathed, who would not suffer a loss in the midst of life. Anna—who would raise her child alongside her husband, not forced into a macabre juggling act balancing life's greatest joy with death's gravest blow.

Anna—not Sybil..not her.

Anna.

* * *

 

He had honestly thought the most difficult time of their day was over, confessed and absorbed on the back terrace of Rufforth Hall as Mary heard the worst of him without reproach. Her reaction had stunned him, her daring kiss and simple acceptance humbling him to a measure that had left him quite raw. She had traced lines of grace across his body, wrapped forgiveness around a soul with arms that held him close. He was a man who rarely opened himself for inspection, but he had exposed himself fully, knowing she had the right to reject him utterly. But she continually allowed him in, baring her own private shame and guilt to him which did nothing but make her more beautiful in his eyes. Mary Crawley had seen and accepted his worst, and for a moment he dared hope that the darkness of those days of grief had possibly left him forever.

But this…this…

This incessant pounding was becoming more and more difficult to contain. He chained his treacherous mind to their time at the lake, bonded wayward thoughts to their walk, their kisses, touches and gasps that taught him to hope in a manner he had not allowed himself to do in what seemed a lifetime. But a door continually cracked open, allowing a draft of past failures and blinding pain to creep in uninvited. Worry deepened the etchings on Mr. Bates's face, the concern of a man who could do nothing for his wife but wait and pray infusing every corner of the room. It was unfair that men should feel the need to protect the women they loved with such fervor yet be denied any role in saving them from this one miraculous act. The act of giving life that all too often proved too much for too many.

A cry from the bedroom brought both men to their feet, and Charles attempted a smile of reassurance, feeling horribly inadequate in the role assigned to him by Mrs. Crawley. Words usually came to him easily, but he had none now. Now, when this man before him could use some in the worst way.

"It will be alright," Charles managed, internally berating himself that the only phrase he could offer was one both men understood to be completely hollow. There were no guarantees at times like this. None at all.

How light his steps had seemed as he rushed to her family's home, so anxious to see her, to get her home, to care for her before their child finally arrived. Everything had seemed possible, the life he wanted finally there before him. But he was met by the tears of a sister, overcome by a wafting sense of death that blocked him from stepping inside, greeted by the brutal shove of a father pushing him, away from his wife, away from his daughter… Forbidding him access to them even in death.

_You killed her! Carrying your cursed child killed my daughter!_

His mind had screamed in denial, his feet trying to push past the man to prove him wrong. But cold reality could not be denied, slaying all that was good and beautiful inside of him and tossing it lifelessly into a cavern that still had the power to debilitate. He had killed her. His love had ultimately killed his wife.

And Mary thought she was cursed.

"You look as though you have a lot on your mind," Mr. Bates stated, handing Charles a cup of tea. "Be careful, it's stronger than it looks."

The aroma of whiskey tickled his nose, bringing a small smile to his face as he indulged in a sip that warmed him thoroughly.

"Nurse Jennings was kind enough to brew a pot earlier," John explained, taking a seat as he invited Charles to do the same. "But you thought it was lacking something."

Charles mused, receiving a slight nod from the other man in confirmation.

"You fixed it well, Mr. Bates."

The natural noises of labor rocked the room again, John's eyes locking on the door separating him from his wife as he exhaled purposefully.

"It's not fair, is it? That women should have to endure so much pain to bring new life into the world?"

Charles could only stare at the man, Mr. Bates's words mirroring the churning in his own mind to perfection.

"No," Charles returned quietly, staring into his tea as if a solution could be found in its steam. "Not at all."

Mr. Bates leaned forward, clearly mulling something over in his mind.

"I understand you have been through some difficult times yourself, Mr. Blake," John uttered, his statement met with an expression of surprise that hadn't the strength of denial. "You need not feel obliged to stay here if this is too difficult for you. I'll see to it that Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley return to Downton safely."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Bates," Charles returned, taking another fortifying sip. "But if the women have the strength to make their way through this, then surely I can manage, as well."

John nodded in silence, leaning back slightly as he eyed his unexpected guest.

"Why don't you tell me about it? It might help us both."

The unexpected summons uncurled his spine, forcing Charles to sit up straighter.

"Believe me, Mr. Bates, the last story you want to hear right now is mine."

"I don't know about that," John offered, his brow creasing slightly. "Sometimes the difficulties of others can take our minds off of our own."

Charles exhaled loudly, leaning towards the other man as he took in his measure.

"It's not pretty tale, Mr. Bates," he warned, the momentary silence relatively unnerving to both of them.

"Neither is my life, Mr. Blake," John admitted, making the other man smile ruefully. "And let me assure you—even though I may hear quite a bit, I say very little."

Charles stared at his companion, the renewal of cries from the birthing room twitching the lines of his face.

"I have no trouble believing that." John Bates was practically begging for a distraction while he offered him a momentary release form his own hurt in the process. Another sip of the warming brew slid easily down his throat, and Charles savored the dulling sensation that targeted acute pain just enough.

He then told him everything.

* * *

 

"You're getting so close," Isobel encouraged, her face peering up from the foot of the bed. "You are fully dilated, my dear, and the baby is in proper position."

Mary held Anna's hand fast, the woman's utter exhaustion palpable as she rested upon her pillow in a brief moment of respite.

"Did you hear, Anna?" Mary breathed in her ear. "The baby will be here shortly. It's almost over."

Anna could only nod in return, lacking the energy to even formulate a smile as another contraction gripped her. Mary helped hold up her sweat-drenched body, supporting her back as Isobel commanded the proceedings.

"Push now, Anna. That's it. It's time to deliver your baby."

A cry of determination rent the room, and Mary very nearly called out with her, the memories of birthing pains freshly tilled.

"I can see the head," Isobel beamed. "A few more pushes should do it."

"I don't know if I can," Anna sobbed, bone-weary exhaustion claiming every inch of her. Each breath was an effort, Mary remembered, every muscle worn and stretched, joints distended at such odd angles. All to accommodate the passage to life.

"Yes—you can," Mary instructed, holding her even more determinedly. "You can do this Anna. You're almost there."

Mrs. Bates nodded wearily, her face clenching together as another contraction contorted her abdomen.

"Now," Isobel called out, Anna raising up in determination as her face reddened with effort. Mary pushed her forward, holding her tightly as Anna's body trembled.

"The head is out," Mrs. Crawley beamed, smiling up at them as a bead of sweat dripped from her face. "Your baby is almost here!"

"My baby," Anna whimpered, gathering strength from beyond herself as she prepared for the next onslaught. She clasped Mary's hand tightly.

"Yes," Mary agreed, smiling at the wave of high emotion she suddenly rode. "Your baby. Don't stop now, Anna."

"Come on, Mrs. Bates," Nurse Jennings chimed in. "You're doing just fine."

The next wave hit, nearly pushing her from the bed as Mary rushed to support her, not even noticing the iron vice on her arm as Anna keened in determination. Mary saw Isobel move quickly, pulling a wrinkled, pink form from between weary thighs, somehow not bothered by the blood that came with it. Nurse Jennings quickly severed the cord as Isobel stimulated the infant, forcing the babe to draw its first air into tiny lungs.

"It's a girl."

Welling tears blinded her, the most welcome music of a child's cry lightening the room even more so than if drapes had been cast aside. Time meant nothing just now, the presence of Anna's new daughter cocooning them all in this private haven. The baby was cleaned, bundled in fresh linens and laid upon her mother's waiting chest. Was there anything so perfect, so beautiful and content as this mother and daughter existing in a world created only for them, a world no ugliness should ever be allowed to taint?

Opaque eyes blinked open for the first time, finding the face of her mother instinctively. Mary backed away slowly, not wanting to intrude on an inherently sacred moment. How radiant Anna was, the fatigue and ecstasy of delivering a healthy child quickly replacing the memories of the struggle it took to bring her out of hiding.

Then it all engulfed her…George's smell when he was first placed in her arms, the beautiful weight of him held so close to her ribs, the texture of the soft down of his hair. That moment when his eyes fixed upon her…the eyes of his father so clearly blue from birth. It had been the oddest yet most beautiful sensation of her life, the feeling of her son drawing life from her in so many ways. Before her beauty burned to ashes.

"Will you hold her, Mary?" Isobel interrupted, cradling the now content infant in her arms. "Anna would like you to take her to meet her father while we get her cleaned up."

"Of course," she managed, bearing the new life delicately as the baby squirmed in close. She drew the child to her cheek, placing a soft kiss on a head sorely lacking in hair. A small hand stretched towards her cheek, the utter innocence of it all making her knees unsteady as she moved towards the door. They were on their feet in an instant, Mary unable to keep the smile from her face as she watched Bates become younger before her very eyes. Lines of concern morphed into those framing a smile as she kept moving forward, placing the pink bundle in her father's sheltering arms.

"Meet your daughter," Mary voiced quietly, unable to look at Charles as the words left her mouth. His face would break the thin veneer gluing her together, and that could not happen, not now, not here. She trained her eyes on John Bates, wiping a tear at his expression that could only be described as reverent wonder.

"Is Anna well?" he asked, heavy emotion weighing down his voice as he looked to Mary for assurance.

"She is perfect," she answered in haste, daring to touch the man's arm gently. "Absolutely perfect."

He nodded softly, his attention once again fully engaged by the sleeping infant in his arms. Isobel came to fetch him, to unite this new family for the first time as she led him through the house to the bedroom. It was just as it should be…just how it always should be.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the quaking began.

Her arms were the first to feel it, but her entire upper torso responded instantly. It was as if she were chilled, but her skin was perfectly warm as the tremor followed a marked trail down her legs. Strong arms were about her immediately, thrusting a teacup into shaking hands as he commanded her to drink. She guzzled the tea greedily, welcoming the harsh burn in her larynx as it both sedated and revived her.

"Get me out of here," she whispered urgently, being moved in the direction of the door before the last word had left her mouth. Her vision tunneled to the exit, a weight in her temples pushing her forward at an accelerated rate until she burst into the fresh air of night. She stood there, just breathing in and out in no particular rhythm as she had with Anna.

As she had with George.

"Let's go, Mary," Charles commanded softly, steering her into his car with no protest. She stared back at the house, closing her eyes in a benediction for the new family as her heart rent asunder yet again. It was all so unfair. They rode in utter silence, words just too difficult, too dangerous, too much to comprehend. She embraced herself tightly, rubbing her arms in an attempt to ward of the aftershocks of tremors that threatened to rattle her yet again. She stared straight ahead, knowing she could not yet look at him. His eyes would unravel her, open a floodgate of emotion on the brink of spilling over. But she could not be without him.

Not now.

They arrived back at Downton in complete darkness, making their way silently into a sleeping household as quietly as they could. She grasped his arm with an intensity she knew must be akin to how Anna had held hers, but he made no move to escape it. He led her wordlessly up the stairs, guiding her to her bedroom door as he finally turned her body in his direction.

"Are you alright now?" Charles whispered, ending their self-imposed silence as he tilted his head until she had no choice but to break her resolve and gaze up at him. He stood before her in pieces, held together by sheer will--just like her.

It was too much.

Mary could only shake her head, greedily absorbing his warmth as he drew her firmly to his chest. His embrace was a balm, the one measure of sheer relief she had been granted since returning from Rufforth Hall just hours ago.

This was what she needed, what would mend her, what would pour healing into both of their bleeding souls.

She drew back slowly, clasping one of his hands firmly within her own as her other moved to the doorknob. She felt its click of release, nudging the door open ever so slowly as the faint light of a small lamp left burning painted intertwined shadows across the floor. Mary looked at him intently, speaking clearly without voicing a sound as her pulse pounded incessantly in her ears. She then stepped into the confines of her bedroom, leading Charles inside with her as the door shut soundly behind them.


	22. Chapter 22

The air was thick, the space utterly motionless as her bedroom walls seemed morph into a private cocoon. Strangers, survivors, they had somehow found each other, forged a connection she now felt no need to explain but drank in as greedily as she had the tea just minutes ago. The comfort of his hand engulfing hers was a brittle lifeline, her connection to this world, to this house, to this man hinging upon its existence. She dared not let go, rubbing her thumb lightly aside his fingers, wary of even breathing too loud lest this transparent thread be broken.

And she left alone.

"Mary."

Her name, whispered in such concern and reverence as he stood across from her sent tremors rippling across her skin. His voice entranced her, his utterance of her name the only sound that had been dared in this fragile realm.

She shivered.

"Shhh," she responded, words still too difficult to conceive. Her feet took a tentative step in his direction, the waves of emotion crashing inside her only increasing in intensity as she drew nearer. One step nearer. He closed his eyes as trembling fingers fluttered across his temple, one hand moving hesitantly around her waist, resting on her hip as the room froze yet again. Her throat constricted, swallowing an effort as her skin began to warm. Then brown eyes opened, the fullness of so many emotions competing for dominance within him piercing her depths, and she squeezed her own shut, tears she had desperately attempted to curtail pulled from her.

She sought out happy images, the faces of Anna, John and their new daughter swimming in her mind's eye. But these were the very ones that also kept grabbing at her heels, threatening to tug her down into a place she desperately did not want to go. Her bottom lip quivered, and she turned her head aside, not wanting to shatter, not when she was struggling so valiantly to keep herself together. She clasped everything tightly—muscles strained, breathing shallow, emotions balled up to toss away. But a large hand softly directed her face towards his.

And she was lost.

Shaking arms grasped him in desperation, knowing that he was the driftwood that would prevent her from going under. She fisted his jacket in her hands, rubbing her tears on his shirt as one of his own fell into her hair. He covered her instantly, drawing her securely against his chest, protecting her in his arms.

Loving her.

A wave formed from her depths, pushing emotion shoved aside back to the surface with an alarming velocity. Sobs began to wrack her body, any sound she made buried into his shoulder as his trembling response moved through her. The salty sting of grief dripped down her face, and she cast herself into its current, knowing the futility of fighting the tumult. Mary felt him lift her from the ground, cradling her against him as she had just cradled Anna's baby. He bore her securely to the corner of her bed where he sat and held her, rocked her, soothed her, stroked her hair with the same tenderness he would have showered upon his own daughter.

Gentle hands stroking her.

Her arms went around him, wet cheeks sliding across his neck as her cries would not be contained. Images, emotions, fragments of memories poured out of her, fighting for freedom as any semblance of control clattered to the floor. Being in the hospital alone and in pain, fearing what was to come but was already upon her… Matthew's expression when he walked into her room, seeing his son for the first and only time… The final dance of his lips upon hers, a kiss which she could not seem to let go, moving with him as if she somehow sensed what was coming.

What was coming.

What had passed.

What was lost.

She curled into Charles, letting him absorb the ripping of her soul as so much gushed out of her onto his clothing, onto his skin. Her hands found his hair, so thick and lush, and she pressed fingers into his scalp, as if trying to draw out the venom from his own painful past. His arms tightened instinctively around her, his breath on her ear as she felt another of his tears trickle down her lobe. She held him closer.

Breaking open. Clasping tightly.

She couldn't seem to get him close enough, actually, wanting to pull him into her very being where they could cast aside what tore at them and cling to what healed. A gentle touch of his lips against her cheekbone only heightened this instinct, her own mouth moving to his temple as she spoke her first words into his skin.

"Don't leave me."

He shook his head, hands answering for him as they gripped her in need, begging in their own language for her… for just her.

It was incredible to her.

He was raw, gaping open. Gone was the polish, the veneer of charisma, the charm she found so endearing. But she did not need it, did not want it, actually, when all of her emotional cosmetics had run off some time ago. No pretense, no hiding, just the two of them, bloody and battered yet still standing, still breathing, and daring to feel once more. They were fully clothed, but she felt more naked than she had at the lake, his arms her only covering, his heart her only blanket to wrap around her blatant exposure.

She felt the breath of a kiss on her ear.

She turned on his lap to face him fully, putting herself in a more vulnerable position but not bothered by the fact. He needed her, she craved him to her depths, this was all that mattered. She leaned in to his form until her forehead rested upon his, cautious fingers framing his face as his arms enclosed her fully. Nose to nose, breath to breath they sat, an occasional tear wiped away by hands that understood, an acceptance and remembrance of pasts that had left them marked. Any sense of time escaped them, the only reality the whisper of his thumb across her forehead, the only conversation her name upon his lips.

"Mary…"

His voice drawing her…closer…ever closer. Eyes needing…pleading silently. She felt the overwhelming urge to smooth away his scars with her palms, slowly edging his jacket off his shoulders and nudging to the floor. Her hands danced across his chest, the fabric of his shirt suddenly in the way—a frustrating barrier she wanted to cast aside. Eyes still streaked from crying questioned silently from under heavy lids, receiving no censure from orbs that had witnessed too much destruction. He took in her beauty—the enormity of it nearly breaking him asunder—as he quietly nodded once.

Granting permission. Seeking solace. Needing so much.

Needing her.

That she should want to touch him was unbelievable, unfathomable to a man who had avoided physical intimacy for years. Moments in the dark brought about by financial transactions had done nothing but made him feel dirty, exposing his wounds even further as he realized there was no substitute for what had transpired in the arms of his wife. But there was nothing but wonder here, hope and tenderness with this woman who allowed him to be all too honest yet sat here trustingly on his lap. And she offered to heal his scars.

What had he ever done to deserve this?

She undid a button with trembling fingers, and he did not stop her, too dependent upon this connection to even consider severing it. One button, then another, until the garment was left hanging on his shoulders, his chest now exposed to her.

Breaths halted as senses quivered.

The graphic beauty of a man scarred, the trance woven by marble skin.

"No undershirt?" she spoke, startled by the sound of her own voice in the environment they had created.

"I didn't bother after the lake," he admitted, the edges of a grin actually peeking out at her that made her heart flutter.

They were locked once more, looking to each other, both afraid to move yet compelled to journey. He then leaned in, kissing the very spot he had first claimed in the hallway several nights ago, increasing the pulse in a temple already skittering with life. He had marked that place as his, she realized, but he would claim no other part of her without her permission. The enormity what was happening washed over her, making her feel light and heavy at the same time. She stared at his face as flat palms began a trail up his torso, one following the path left by a knife, the other tracing the tracks of wounds invisible yet deeper.

They stilled just under his shoulders, the increased pace of his breath on her neck blowing life into a smoldering blaze. She leaned in until her lips sat just on top of his, swallowing down nerves as her eyes remained open. It was an understanding of shared darkness, of knowing weaknesses, of accepting everything.

"I am so sorry, Charles."

Her words entered him, his hands fisting her dress tightly as she took his upper lip into her mouth. She languidly traced a trail, careful not miss even one place on his lips as she attempted to wipe away the self-reproach she knew he harbored. But those emotions were buried in far reaches, her tongue moving deeper in search of such wounds, probing him, searching him, and accepting the absolution he offered her as he began to kiss her insistently.

Blood pulsed, mouths opened and clasped, partaking freely, hungrily, ending a season of famine. 

He kissed away the remnants of searing loss, the sting of deep pain remembered. The movement of his lips on hers drowned out guilt's ugly voice, banishing any thoughts of curses from the fringes of her mind. Hands worked his open shirt off his shoulders, drawing it down slowly, bare skin on display for her.

Bare emotions laid open by both.

Arms wound around backs, she hungrily memorizing the feel of exposed flesh on such a large scale, he clasping her to him, wanting her to move on but cautious of allowing her to do so.

"Mary, are you certain?" he managed, a bit of reason attempting to curtail the flood of emotion rising at an alarming rate. Her answer was open mouthed, a pulsing response that engulfed him as her tongue spoke for her. Her dress hitched up her thighs as she moved in even closer, fingernails drawing a sketch on his back that shot through him like a bolt.

Yes. She was certain.

She was desperate for him, actually, relishing this rising wildfire that burned away what hurt. Thrills sped up her spine as large hands smoothed over her thighs, caressing skin the dress had abandon. His fingers traced the materials edge, teasing her into a small frenzy as she nibbled his bottom lip. A small moan escaped him, and she felt her dress balling tightly around her legs in his fist. She shuttered slightly as his tongue caressed her palate before tangling with hers with no restraint.

Needs building, instincts dominating, the wildness of a spark unleashed, the receptiveness of the dry brush of brokenness.

She raised up on her knees until her face was above his, hands framing his face as rapid breaths merged. Eye seeking final permission looked at her with such adoration she nearly melted into him. She leaned in closer as large hands continued to warm her thighs, forbidding either of them to break their gaze as her thumbs stroked his face.

"Make love to me."

Good God. He could never deny her anything.

He pulled her mouth back to his, giving her his answer in a manner that left her in no doubt of his response. She felt the subtle shift in his touch, from somewhat restrained to purposeful, although it remained as gentle as the silken texture of her dress. He kissed her completely, rocking her backward a bit so he could explore her mouth unhindered as his arms bore her weight. Flashes of heat prickling up her thighs, spreading tension, skin heightened in anticipation, in absolute need.

"Yes. God, yes."

Lips that had just spoken then drifted down her neck, their unrushed but insistent attentions only intensifying her deeply-rooted ache. His nose then brushed down to her clavicle, nuzzling her softly as hot breath teased her sensitive flesh. Hands clasped his head, pulling him closer, ever closer until his lips finally touched down.

And she nearly jumped off his lap.

She felt his grin against her neck, noting the strengthening of his grip around her as his tongue resumed what his lips had started. A cry escaped her—she could not help it—enduring this heady agony as long as she was able. She pushed him forward, taking his mouth fully, desperately. Plunging in deeper, seeking more of him, always more.

Soft fingertips resumed their traipsing dance up and down his torso, feeling his skin heat under their delicate ministrations. Then it was his turn to start, bouncing her slightly in a manner that made her draw back enough to look at him in question.

"Ticklish?" she mused, eyeing him with unabashed curiosity.

"I'll never tell," he returned with a dimple, earning himself a soft giggle of appreciation as they looked at each other yet again. "You would just use it against me."

She stroked his hair, losing her fingers in its lushness.

"I'll find out, you know."

Mischievous fingers were pulled into his mouth, kissed and suckled until the confines of her own skin felt tight.

"Yes. But you'll have to work for it."

He tossed a brow at her before she could retaliate, then it dawned upon her. They were smiling-both of them truly smiling.

Unfathomable…unreasonable… So incredibly welcome.

Her face neared his, hissing slightly as his hands traced the profiles of her legs. The kiss that ensued was warm, rich, and languid, one ripe with anticipation and full of understanding. Tongues met with a purpose, giving and receiving, exchanging pain for hope, the past for the present. And the possibility of a future. Large hands toyed with the strap of her dress, and he kissed the skin around it, sliding one finger under the slip of material as her heartbeat sped markedly. He then clasped it between finger and thumb, nudging it over slightly to allow his lips access to skin just uncovered.

No freckle was ignored, each sampled and appreciated as if it were the finest of delicacies. Somehow the strap found itself sliding down her arm, her shoulder now uncovered until his palm rested there a moment. Before skimming around to her back… and discovering her buttons.

Dear God.

They both stood, understanding without speaking as his fingers began their work in silence. Sometimes staring, sometimes kissing, one rounded bead after another was released from its confines until she felt nothing but air on her back. Air and stroking hands.

She leaned into him, hands resting on his chest as his fingers skimmed her flesh. He then turned her around, wrapping one arm securely around her waist as the other began to play with fabric. He drew down one side of her garment just enough, feathering kisses on her upper back that straightened her spine instantly. Her head dropped back to his shoulder, and he took advantage of the exposed lines of her neck, moving his lips to its surface and feasting while the dress fell off one shoulder completely. His hand drew lines on her arm, gooseflesh blossoming in its wake as he held her fast to him. Then the other side began its descent…falling away…revealing secrets. Her mind was a blur of color and sensation, of light and feelings that swirled in an ever-widening vortex. Muscles began to flutter and clench, lips moving with no sound coming out. She wondered if she would be able to remain upright if not for his supportive hand splayed across her naval holding her close.

So very close.

She was vaguely aware of her dress dropping to the floor, of her feet stepping out of its confines, but she was highly alert to feel of his hands on her body with only her slip as a barrier. Touches were kept purposefully on top of the garment as he used the light material to his advantage, creating within her a frenzy that had its own set of demands. She turned back to face him, needing his mouth on hers, needing the connection of lips and tongues, the mingling of breath, and the sense of life in his eyes.

She wanted this man so badly, so recklessly. Now.

She finally reached out for his trousers, unhitching clasps and working them down as she felt the impact of her attentions in the aroused state of his kiss. His mouth began to feast upon hers as pants were cast aside, so little…so very little covering bodies intent upon finding one another. A potent awareness of his need… then hands could not be still…tracing, feeling, rubbing in the excitement of exploration. Lips began to increase their pace, tongues following suit as the need for more dominated this unspoken conversation.

They were pressed so tightly together, so very, very tightly.

The nudge of a strap, his mouth on her shoulder, one hand sliding down her back and even lower. Fingers tracing a pattern across the lacy top of her slip, circling languidly around one breast before skimming to the other.

Then clasping.

Her instinctive arching pushed her back against him, kissing, demanding. She poured herself into him, knowing he accepted every part of her without question, reveling in the notion of nothing being hidden between them. Nothing hidden. She broke their connection, watching his eyes as she stepped back slowly, and let her slip fall to the floor.

She shivered at the sensation of nothing but air and eyes upon her skin, keeping her gaze steady as she watched him drink in her image.

"My God, you are beautiful."

It was all he could manage, the words forming with some difficulty yet spoken with the hushed reverence of a prayer. He gathered her close, chest to chest, unable to stop caressing her flesh as mouths found each other yet again. What garments remained were cast aside, and they paused a moment. Staring…marveling...the wonder of newness in a touch.

"So are you."

He was completely overcome by her, feelings surging up, pushing through boundaries as words crossed his lips before he could consider their impact.

"Mary, I…"

Her finger touched his lips, rubbing their surface, absorbing words she could not yet hear yet understood to her depths.

"I know."

Her whisper caressed him, received by a heart whose transparency beckoned her. Nothing between them. Nothing hidden.

The pad of her finger continued to touch his lips, her eyes accepting his most tender offering. He then drew her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm as he had before, as he intended on kissing other parts of her, she realized. She snaked her arms around his neck, clasping him close to keep her knees from buckling as his attentions moved to her mouth. They somehow found the bed, laying upon it without ever losing connection. The lamp was extinguished in favor of the moonlight's silver hues. Bodies were bathed in crystal and shadows, and any remaining thoughts evaporated into sensation… Glorious, mind-numbing sensation.

The feeling of cool sheets pressed against her back. Warm hands on skin. Lips rubbing softly, nibbling, tasting… Knowing.

Eager fingers discovering, caressing, learning secrets in the dark… Maddening.

Mouths taking over…lavishing her breasts. Hands grasping, grasping, heads tossing back in abandon. Fingers clenching, kneading the planes of his body.

Names called out breathlessly. Legs tangling, stroking, opening.

The intimate touch of a lover.

Body to body, muffled cries marking shoulders. A look of inquiry.…a nod…the touch of guiding hands.

Easing….accepting…..merging slowly…...a sigh of completion..

Clinging to the other.

Then clasping…..moving…pressing hard. Grasping instinctively. Riding waves and tides….mouths on skin.

Rising, continually rising... Swelling…cries…groaning…lips painting flesh. Seeking more…gripping harder.

Climbing…panting….straining. Soaring higher… yet higher. Cresting….yes…bursting. Crashing…colliding…breaking into the other.

Ebbing….holding...breathing.

Warmth.

Gentle strokes cocooned in a safe embrace…whispered endearments felt more than heard. Her arm draped over his chest, eyes unable to look away just yet…still connected. Still connected.

His hand stroking her hair. Heavy limbs tangled under sheets. Soft kisses feathered over cheek bones, fingers interlocked. So much…so very much.

Still body to body.

"Mary."

Her name on his lips breathed into her hair. Eyes engaging yet again, fingers stroking his face. She sees all he offers, what he has wholly given her. And what she has given him.

"I know."

Another kiss…a smile, a dimple touched. They burrow into each other, adjusting blankets over shoulders, still touching each other in wonder. Settling in to an all-consuming awareness of something new.

He draws her to him, spooning their bodies together, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her breast. No words are needed with his warmth pressed against her back. Fingers caressing her hair lull her, beckon her to close her eyes and fall into him.

She does.

Resting…trusting… Drifting.

And he keeps watch, holding her close, memorizing the scent of her hair, the geography of her curves, the feel of her breath on his arm. Eyes fully open…heart fully exposed. Lost to her in every way imaginable.

The Sleeping Beauty, he thinks, intoxicated by long lashes and pale lips. He stares at the clock, dreading the moment when he must leave her.

"Mary." A word whispered in the dark shimmering in the moonlight. Her countenance so peaceful, almost girl-like with all traces of sorrow wiped away by sleep's magic hand. "I love you."

Her features do not move, but her body adjusts, turning into him, seeking him in her slumber. She knows, he realizes fully as heavy eyes betray him and begin to drift shut.

She knows.

* * *

 

He awoke with a start, blinking at the clock in haste to ensure he had not slept too long.

No….it was alright.

He shook his head slightly, breathing a silent word of thanks into the room even as he could not believe his slip of weakness. He slept so little, rarely slept well at all, actually, making the fact that he could have caused an unimaginable mess had he slept much longer in her bedroom ironic in the worst sense. He hated the thoughts of waking her when she looked so content, but he could not stomach the thoughts of sneaking out like a self-serving rake, leaving her to face morning alone and with inevitable questions. He kissed her forehead gently, relishing the feel of her form burrowing in closer while still bound within the heady confines of sleep. He could not help but smile at her, stare at her, be overwhelmed by what had just transpired between them in her bed. He watched her lips twitch slightly, the look of utter peace resting upon her features warming him deeply.

Then he heard her speak, a slight murmur echoed from dreams that stilled his heart.

"Mathew…"

For a moment, he could not breathe.

It should not have stung so deeply. He was fully aware that parts of her still clung to his memory, still yearned for her husband that she had loved for so long. It was only natural, only right. Had he not told her just yesterday that she was not ready for…for this? For what they had just done? And he had promised her that he would be patient…would take things as slowly as she needed. That promise had lasted only a matter of hours. He silently berated himself for his weakness, cursing himself as a cad even as he could not bring himself to regret their actions. He would not take back a moment of this time with her, craving more of it against his better judgment.

Just what kind of man did that make him?

He felt her stir once more, and he kissed her temple again in some sort of useless attempt to reclaim what he selfishly felt the right to mark as his own. Heavy lids began to flutter open, eyes slowly focusing on the man before her. He saw the quick flash of confusion laced with a spark of something he could only pray was not disappointment. Then recognition settled comfortably with a hint of surprise, soft fingers touching his face in a manner that made him ache in more ways than one.

"What time is it?" she whispered, her voice heavy with the remnants of sleep as she stretched languidly against him.

"Almost time for me to leave," he answered with more than a little regret. "I would hate to bring the entire house down around us."

She made a sound of acknowledgement, gazing at him wordlessly as her fingers continued their ministrations.

"What is it?" he asked softly, stroking her shoulder lightly, finding it nearly impossible to force himself to move from her side. She bit her bottom lip self-consciously, making her appear quite young indeed.

"Funnily enough, I feel a bit shy," she admitted, drawing forth his grin as he leaned gently on top of her.

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

His kiss was gentle yet possessive, hers still groggy but inviting as hands resumed their explorations from hours ago. Bodies responded quickly, need emerging again with softer edges and less desperation. This joining was slower, more delicate yet profound to both of them in its implications. Breaths melded into each other as she shattered completely in his arms, as he broke apart inside of her. She clung to him tightly in the aftermath, and he held her as close to him as he possibly could, afraid of letting go and returning to the world awaiting them outside of this newness, but knowing fully that it was necessary.

Morning had unexpectedly become their enemy.

"I have to leave now."

The words tasted foul in his mouth as he touched his lips to hers once more.

"I know."

She knew.

He regretfully slid out of the bed, unable to take his eyes from her as he dressed in the dark. Clothes felt almost foreign on his body after being with her in such state—so open and unhindered, so brutally raw with each other on every front. Yet she remained in a state of perfection—naked, partially covered by a crumpled sheet, watching him with eyes that now saw everything. He returned to her for one more kiss, one more touch, one more moment with her before the questions he knew they both must face took center stage in the light of day.

He did not want to leave her.

Her fingers clasped his arm, keeping him with her another moment before everything changed irrevocably. It already had, of course, but they were protected from anything unpleasant or difficult as long as this connection was not severed. Foreheads touched yet again, her thumb stroking his skin as he gently pushed a wayward lock of hair from her eyes.

His hand on her shoulder. Her lips on his cheek. The fear of letting go.

She despised the feel of her bed lightening as he stood, fighting the urge to pull him back to her even as her eyes gave her away. Pale skin shivered, feeling bereft without his covering to shelter her.

Why did she feel so suddenly exposed?

He hated the feeling of moving away from her, of leaving her alone in her bed, of the cold metallic texture of the door knob held within his grasp. She sat and watched him grudgingly slip out of her door, gazing at him intently as he dared a final glance around its corner before disappearing into the darkened hallway. Shutting the door seemed so final for some reason.

He missed her already.

Heavy feet journeyed silently to his room, his eyes ever watchful for unexpected witnesses as he entered the safety of his chambers. How cold it felt—drafty and uncomfortable.

Lonely and dark.

He removed his shoes and stretched out atop his covers, his mind dominated by the woman so very close to him yet worlds away—the woman who had left him with a heart so very full...

And more than slightly wounded.

The room was different somehow now that he was gone, her own but larger in a sense. She clasped the pillow to her face, inhaling his scent, needing a tangible reminder of him even though he had just left her presence. She held it to her breast, still greedy for a connection with him. It was no substitute for arms that had just held her, caressed her, touched her privately, just as it never had been after Matthew left her.

Matthew.

She stood from the bed quickly, the reality of what had just happened drenching her senses with the same shock as icy water. Hands covered her cheeks as she moved to the mirror, making out what she could of her reflection in the relative darkness.

She was naked. And she had given him everything.

She had made love to Charles, and he to her. There had not once been any confusion for her concerning that issue. It had never been Matthew in her mind, his presence sensed only in the blurry dreams that drifted in and out before Charles woke her. But it was only now that something even more profound struck her.

This had been a final good-bye.

Not to his memory, but to his hold on her life. Not to the love they had shared, but to her long-held belief that she could never share something beautiful with someone else. She had parted ways with dwelling in the shadows the moment she drew Charles Blake into her bedroom, choosing to be with him rather than mourn in the dark alone. Was it possible to feel oddly unfaithful yet liberated at the same time? She nearly opened the drawer to pull out his photograph but stilled her hand a breath from the handle.

No—she would not give him a part in what had just transpired.

Yes—grief and loss had instigated the intimacy just shared within these walls, but it had been given and taken freely by two adults—two survivors. It would be wrong and hurtful to cast a shadow over a relationship forged out of such shards and remnants. To let a ghost come between them.

Had she been ready for what they had done?

It was too late to second guess their decision now, the deed having been done more than once. She fought down the instinctive need to cover herself, staring at her nudity blatantly as she quietly accepted this new reality she had chosen. A lone tear slid down her cheek—a final kiss to the man she had loved for as long as she could remember. She then wiped it away, blinking back the urge for more as she slid on the nightgown laid out for her and padded quietly back to her bed. Sheets had chilled once again, her toes finding no warmth within them as she drew blankets over shivering arms.

And for what seemed like hours, she lay there, silent and still, thinking of two different men, two different lovers in a room now lonely and dark.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora discovers that Mary and Charles consummated their relationship.

"Mary."

Her mind fought the summons, her body perfectly content to remain in the comforting realm of sleep. Hues of gray shrouded her consciousness, leaden limbs finding it impossible to move under such conditions. No, there was no possible need to formulate an answer.

But the intruder was persistent.

"Mary, wake up."

Displeasure at such an insistent tone cascaded across lazy nerves, and she stretched in response, clasping the pillow to her chest as the remnant of a decidedly masculine scent tickled her nose.

Charles.

Her awakening mind languidly filled in missing pieces even as her eyes remained sealed, deliciously suspended in the foggy realm where dreams and reality intermingled freely. Remembered sensations caressed slumbering skin, rousing her slowly in more ways than one. She hummed to herself, seeking him with fingers that found only sheets and formless blankets where his body should have lain.

"Mary!"

A crisp tone coupled irritatingly with shaking hands on her shoulders, startling open dark eyes that were surprised to see her mother. Mary propped herself on her elbows in a bit of a stupor, yawning as she blinked repeatedly in an attempt to focus her gaze and shake warm memories from her body.

"Mama?" she questioned, her pulse picking up in concern. "What is it? Is George alright?"

Cora sighed, nodding her head as she kept her gaze fastened upon her daughter.

"George is fine, Mary. In fact, he and Sybbie have been outside with Nanny Thompson for the past half an hour."

"Isn't it rather early for an outing?" Mary questioned, still attempting with a certain amount of reluctance to draw her mind into the present moment, and away from events that had both tantalized her dreams and fueled a body now most decidedly awake.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" her mother replied, the slight trace of irritation lacing her tone raising the hair on Mary's arms. "You have slept away the morning. If you don't get up now, you'll miss luncheon, as well."

Mary pushed up her weight on limbs that felt strangely wobbly. She was instantly assaulted by vivid details, images of what had transpired in this very bed unconsciously urging her to pull the sheet up to her chin as if to hide them from her mother's glaring eyes. Eyes that were watching her much too closely at the moment.

"I'm sorry," Mary managed, willing steadiness into her tone as she began to make out small details in the light of day. "We returned rather late last night."

"I'm aware of that," Cora continued, her intense stare steadily unnerving her eldest. "And I am most delighted to hear of Bates and Anna's precious daughter."

"Yes," Mary returned quietly. "She is beautiful."

A shiver rocked her spine as the emotions that had shaken them both fleetingly touched her. She clasped arms and blankets protectively around herself, wishing that her mother would just leave and allow her some time to steady her mind for the day, for entertaining guests.

For facing him.

Needless conversation was simply beyond her, and crackles of ire spat forth their displeasure at this forced encounter. She was still attempting to make sense of all that had transpired in her room, trying to untangle feelings so jumbled yet almost frightening in their accelerating clarity. Converging worlds of past and present, of skin and spirit, of releasing and binding had been bedfellows last night—all merging as she and Charles had come together in the darkness, forging a delicate union as new and tender as Anna's babe.

One that could unravel all too easily.

How she needed him at the moment. After all, Charles had experienced the same famished desperation as she, understood all that had happened between them in a manner that no one else possibly could. With him, words would be unnecessary. He would allow her to rest, to ponder this newness, to process the sensation of waking up on a raft afloat in uncharted waters. He knew. He knew her. In every way.

Dear God.

She silently cursed the warming sensation around her eyes, hoping the flush would not extend to her neck as she forced her gaze back to her mother's with a steady grit.

"Isobel returned sometime after you and Mr. Blake did, from what I have been told," Cora continued, either unaware or unconcerned with her daughter's overwhelming need for privacy.

"But she had her breakfast some time ago and is already at Crawley House checking on the progress of the repairs."

Mary nodded dutifully, wondering just where her mother was attempting to steer this conversation but unwilling to budge from her roost.

"Where is Campbell?"

"Campbell has been a nervous wreck all morning," Lady Grantham put in. "She does not yet know you well enough to feel comfortable rousing you from a sound slumber. I told her that I would take care of everything."

Mary sensed the shift in tone, a subtle implication that something unpleasant was about to be let out of its cage. Her pulse sped slightly as she attempted to swallow down a nagging fear that only sharpened at her mother's next statement.

"And I'm glad that I did."

"What is it, Mama? Just what is it you are after?"

Eyes locked, expressions held neutral, one unfazed by an arched brow and clipped tone, the other meeting implied accusation with arms that now folded in an attempted stance of defiance. Cora then extended her hand, unfurling fingers to reveal something previously hidden to Mary's blinking gaze.

A button. A man's button.

Her eyes darted back to her mother's in a flash, words held back by both as they attempted to read the other in silence.

"What's this?" Mary questioned flatly, breaking the stalemate first in an effort to control the direction of the conversation. "And just why are you showing this to me? Did Barrow manage to lose this somewhere?"

"You know perfectly well what this is," Cora returned without blinking. "And to whom it belongs."

Blood rushed to her ears as all pretense clattered to the floor, the inner noise almost deafening as she willed her breath to remain steady. She would volunteer nothing of what had transpired between her and Charles to her mother. It was too personal, too intimate, and still much too dangerous for anyone's knowledge besides their own.

"Why would you make such an assumption?" Mary asked directly, issuing a small challenge of her own. "It's not as if I make it a habit to study the buttons on men's attire."

Cora stared, her eyes narrowing slightly as her arm indicated a location behind her that stilled Mary's breath in her throat.

"Because I found it right there."

At the foot of her bed. Where he had cradled her so tenderly, absorbing her grief into himself as his own dampened her hair. Where she had attempted to kiss away his pain, weaving an intangible web that effectively bound them to each other. Where she had removed his jacket, determinedly worked off his shirt, granting eager hands the opportunity to explore his skin unhindered by clothing, offering her mouth a first taste of the saltiness of his chest. Where she had implored him in a deep whisper to make love to her.

And he had. Dear God, he had.

She breathed deeply, tilting her head in such a manner as to imply boredom even as her insides churned mercilessly.

"How strange," she managed, surprised by just how even her voice sounded as she tweaked her expression slightly, refusing to look at the spot in question. "But I'm still uncertain what this has to do with me."

A warning was flashed, too marked to be missed. She would not allow her mother to trespass into this realm.

"You can be as coy and uncooperative as you like, Mary, but that doesn't change the fact that you should be grateful that it was me and not Campbell who strolled into your bedroom this morning."

The warning had been blatantly ignored, lines drawn in the perilous quicksand between mother and daughter.

"Might I ask just what you are implying?" Mary retorted coolly, sitting up taller as she allowed the sheet to fall to a forgotten bundle at her waist.

"Might I ask you just how you managed all of the buttons on your dress last night without ringing for Campbell?" Cora returned, noting Mary's hasty glance to the crumpled heap in the corner that had been her evening attire. Dark eyes then traversed an incriminating trail of bread crumbs, a slip cast off close to her vanity, an undergarment of silk and lace eased off her thighs by warm palms lying discarded near her bed. Then there was his scent still lingering on her sheets, in her hair, pressed lovingly into her very pores. How horribly ironic that her own clothing and small remnants of himself had morphed into outspoken accusers, threatening to paint an act so fragile and intimate in the cheap oils of misunderstanding. Their carelessness could condemn them without a trial. She grabbed his button residing mockingly in her mother's flattened hand, drawing it to herself with eyes that refused to flinch.

"We are adults, you know."

There. It had been said.

"Yes—I am well aware of that fact," Cora returned, the quietness of her tone only highlighting its razored edge. "And I also realize that I have no real say in how you manage your affairs."

Her choice of words hung tangibly between them, making Mary clasp the button even tighter, imprinting its details into her palm.

"It would seem we have reached an understanding," Mary voiced, refusing to blink. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to send for Campbell so I can get dressed."

The stalemate widened.

"I'm disappointed in you, Mary."

The words stung, no matter how stubbornly she attempted to convince herself that her mother's opinion didn't matter. But it did—it always had.

"Well, that's nothing new. I've always been a disappointment, haven't I? With the exception of marrying Matthew and producing George, it would seem I've done very little of worth in my life."

"That's not true," Cora rebutted, scooting closer, her voice still maddeningly calm.

"Isn't it?" Mary demanded, burying hurt under ire. "Because I would wager that we have had more conversations about my failings and blunders rather than my accomplishments."

"I am not here to berate you over what took place here last night, but I did think you were smarter than this," Lady Grantham stated, sitting up taller and putting a bit of space between them. "Did you learn nothing from what happened ten years ago?"

That did it.

Mary turned abruptly, swiftly sliding out of her bed and whirling on her mother with feline agility.

"Why am I not surprised to have that thrown in my face again? It seems I am never to escape the scarlet letter branded on me a decade ago, even among my own family."

"This has nothing to do with branding you, Mary," Cora rebutted. "And if it were just our family we had to be concerned about, things would be much easier. But word did manage to get out about Mr. Pamuk in London, if you remember, although nothing was ever proven and the damage contained."

She stared at her mother intently.

"How could I forget? It was implied at our own dinner table just three nights ago."

Lady Grantham dropped her eyes, unable to hold her daughter's accusing stare in the precursor of her next statement.

"And who stood up for me, Mama? Was it you? Papa? Granny? When guests you brought into our home had the nerve to speak of me publicly in such a fashion, who put a stop to it?"

The answer hung with enormity between them.

"You know that I like Mr. Blake," Cora threw in, "but he is not the issue here."

"That's funny, for some reason I thought we were discussing the fact that he spent the night in my bedroom. How does that exclude him from being a part of the issue?"

"Because he is a man, Mary, and whether we like it or not, it is always the woman who carries any stigma associated with an affair. Charles Blake could have twenty lovers and move through his life relatively unscathed, but you—you will not be granted the same anonymity, and you know it."

"He would disagree with that reasoning, you know," Mary stated flatly, recalling pieces of conversation about his aunt…about her. "And there is no comparison between what happened with Mr. Pamuk to what took place last night between me and Charles. None whatsoever."

The words were marked by an icy edge as she rubbed her arms unconsciously, his button still hidden in her hand.

"At least Mr. Blake is still alive and well, thank God."

A bark of laughter flew out of her at the absurdity of her mother's observation. She shook her head incredulously, tossing her arms up in frustration.

"You have no idea, do you?" she breathed fiercely, old wounds merging with new in a distorted partnership.

"I understand that you and Mr. Blake are both still hurting and you may not have used your best judgment," Cora cut in, watching her daughter warily. "And the fact that you are a widow does change things a bit. However…"

"However," Mary laughed mirthlessly. "There's always a however, isn't there? Why can you not simply accept what has happened and leave us alone? Charles and I can work out our own affair, as you put it. We are in no need of your assistance."

She was trembling again, her nightgown offering no protection from the cool air assaulting her skin.

"You may be more in need of it than you realize," Cora contradicted. "God only knows what you might be facing if Campbell had been the one to walk into your room this morning. The entire household could have been alerted to your lapse in judgment before you ever made it down the stairs."

"And what if they had?" Mary shrugged, feigning indifference with a false show of bravado. "You just said it—I am a widow, and the standards have changed. How large a scandal could we possibly cause?"

"Enough of one to make your life uncomfortable," came the immediate reply. "And you're a mother, now. You must consider what kind of impact your decisions will have on your son."

George.

She felt suddenly deflated, turning her stance towards the window where she faced no judgmental stares, where newly opened drapes hinted at nothing more threatening than an impending rain. She inexplicably longed for a crack of thunder, for a relentless deluge to pour out in an unabashed fury against the glassy surface. To hell with all of this grief and complication.

"My private life should be allowed to be just that," Mary asserted quietly. "I am a good mother, you know that, Mama. Having Charles as a lover does not alter that fact."

Describing him in such terms triggered an odd flutter in her stomach. She rubbed the back of her neck absently, touching skin that he lavished just hours before.

"No, but it could place both you and George under a huge amount of scrutiny, most of it unfriendly and some of it decidedly hostile. You cannot tell me that that is what you want for him, Mary." A sigh escaped her, and she closed her eyes at the sensation of being penned in a space much too small. "And Charles Blake does not strike me as the type of man who will be content to remain merely a lover for very long, either."

No—he wouldn't be. Of that fact, Mary was quite certain.

He would not want to expose her to the possibility of censure, would adamantly protect her reputation even if it meant sacrificing his own. He was a good man, an honorable man, the type of man her father had always wanted for his daughter, the type of man she had loved with everything she possessed and lost on a winding road.

"Has he mentioned marriage?"

Eyes darted open in a coerced reckoning.

"It's too early for that," Mary insisted, bristling at the irony of her statement even as it left her lips.

"You may have no choice in the matter," Cora returned, the impact of the inference hitting Mary with force. Her hand settled unthinkingly on her abdomen as the possibility took root. It was only then that she noticed how cold her fingers truly were, sliding them under her arms as she sought the warmth denied her, still holding on to his button, now wondering if she held something else of his deep within.

Oh, God.

"That's highly unlikely," she uttered in a half-hearted attempt to convince herself.

"You know how long it took me and Matthew…this was only…"

The sentence remained incomplete, sentiments voiced without conviction doing little to reassure either woman. After all, there had since been a surgical procedure, a healthy child delivered.

And she had been with Charles more than once.

Her mother stood, calmly handing her a robe, waiting in silence until it covered her daughter's form.

"No matter how likely or unlikely, the possibility is still there," Cora returned frankly. "And I would wager that we aren't the only ones who have realized that, either."

No. It would be fresh in his mind, she was certain. The thought of facing him became increasingly unnerving with the knowledge that when he looked at her he would be wondering, speculating… hoping?

As deeply as he had always longed for a child, would he welcome having one with her so quickly? Or would an accidental pregnancy be as overwhelming to him as it was to her at the moment? Would he come to resent the fact that she had instigated their lovemaking, feel trapped into a forced union that could gradually chip away at the fragile delicacy of what they were building? Heaven knew he was not a man who would ever attempt to flee his responsibilities. She rubbed her temples in an attempt to slow maddening thoughts racing headlong into territory that in all likelihood had no more substance than a morning fog. This was futile—worrying over a child that might not even exist.

Wasn't it?

Her stomach fluttered yet again.

"I really can't think about all of this right now," she insisted quietly as she focused her gaze directly on her mother. "And please show me the respect of allowing me to address these matters with Charles privately."

It was a plea to conceal what had happened from her father that eerily paralleled one made a decade ago in this very room, a cry for trust that she could and would do the right thing for herself and her son. Yet the composed woman voicing this request was not the same girl who had begged for compassion as she shook in delayed shock while a man lay dead across her bed. "Trust me to manage this, Mama. Please."

Faint cracks in her daughter's composure called out to Cora, the decided uncertainty hiding behind a façade of calm drawing out protective instincts to shelter her eldest, to attempt to smooth small lines creasing around dark eyes still fragmented emotionally, to ensure that Mary did not break apart again. She nodded her assent in silence, swallowing down any need to press home a point on a soul so blatantly overwhelmed.

"There is nothing fair or right about what you have had to live through this year, Mary. Nothing at all."

The final words were no more than a shaken whisper, a voiced remembrance of another life snatched from them much too early. Mary stared into the pained eyes of her mother, all gauntlets momentarily cast aside as shared bereavement forged a tenuous connection.

"Do you know how hard it was to be there, Mama? To witness Anna giving birth, to see her with her baby and her husband?" The words formed quite independently of her conscious will, needing to be spoken, seeking to be understood by the woman who had given her life. "She gets to keep them both, Mama…not one. Both."

How childish she sounded, but she could not care. Her palm began to sweat as it continually clutched his button, clasping onto this small remnant of him to keep her legs from faltering. She drew the robe tightly around her waist, keeping her gaze steadily fixed on clouds pregnant with rain.

"I can imagine."

The whisper was just audible, yet strong enough to be felt by them both.

"And although I may not approve of your methods, I will not condemn you for what happened with Charles."

Cora dared a soft touch to her daughter's arm, receiving her full attention at the pull of physical contact.

"I do want you to find happiness again, Mary."

The word shook her, rendering her momentarily mute. Happiness.

_Are you really so frightened of being happy?_

His soft inquiry before they truly kissed for the first time in the small library… and hers to him…a question so startlingly relevant in light of what they had just done and what they could have possibly created.

_Do you ever wonder if we are doing this for the wrong reasons? That we are trying to forget or to just not be sad anymore?_

What had her reasoning been last night, for drawing him inside her room and into her private depths, for baring herself to him in every way possible, for actually making love to him rather than mindlessly sharing her body? She shuddered internally, clasping the robe even tighter out of habit.

"It's strange, really," Mary uttered into the glass, more to herself than to her mother. "For a few moments last night, I actually forgot. That I was a widow, or a mother, even." Her next words fogged the cool pane, the window now her most unexpected confessional.

"I was just a woman."

She waited for a statement of censure, for a grunt of disbelief, but she received a marked silence, the magnitude of which made her close her eyes.

"And were you happy?"

Her eyes opened abruptly as they stared through the question, searching herself wordlessly, startled by her own answer that seared her heart even as she refused to give it a voice. She turned her eyes from her mother lest she see and know, attempting to conceal secrets not yet ripe enough for sharing. But she was aware of her absolute failure in the matter, sealing her eyes shut against her own transparency as a new reality thudded in her chest with rhythmic clarity.

Yes. Yes. And again, yes.

She curled chilled toes under icy feet as she finally opened her hand and stared at the small piece of Charles unknowingly left behind in her keeping. The fluttering in her stomach returned yet again as she rested a suddenly warm forehead on the window's cold surface. She wished for a map to navigate her own future as so many variables had been tossed into a strong wind with the same abandon as her clothing when they had clung to each other breathlessly in her bed. Her temple pulsed in a remembrance, in expectation, in both wonder and fear at her body transformed, cradling the button against her chest with the same tenderness as he had cradled her to his own. She sighed audibly into an uncertain morning that bore the promise of change.

God help her. God help them both.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Charles try to define their relationship.

"Hey, there, Charles! Back off a bit, alright?"

The summons barely penetrated his conscious thought, a hand pressed onto his back finally halting the pounding motion of his arm as he stilled the hammer.

"What did that piece of wood ever do to you?"

He turned to gaze upon Tom's half-grin, partially overshadowed by a puzzled expression. His shoulder actually ached, the pain in his muscles a welcome distraction from the unsettled condition of his mind.

"Am I giving it a bit too much elbow, then?"

His attempt at a smile did not reach his eyes, and he wiped sweat with his sleeve in a manner that made him crave Mary's reaction to such a gesture. He could clearly visualize the roll of her eyes, a pointed insistence that he use a towel, images that all too quickly morphed into ones of her head tossing back in abandon as he tasted her neck, the rippling of her body as he sampled her shoulder, the opaque quality of her eyes as his mouth hovered just about her breast, his breath teasing her nipple just before…

"I'm afraid you might break it in half with your enthusiasm," Tom put in, drawing him abruptly from thoughts he must learn to discipline harshly in the presence of others.

And reign in firmly before he saw her. Good, God, what was the matter with him?

"Sorry, then," he returned with a nod. "I'll try to take it easier on the poor planks."

He moved to resume his task, craving the distraction of work, the respite of sweat, anything to drown out the cacophony of uncertainty that had nearly deafened him since he exited her chambers in the morning's wee hours. Sleep had never fully returned to him as restless hands and a conflicted mind searched for her presence, rousing him fitfully anytime he drew near rest's alluring precipice. He had loved her with no boundaries last night, offering up every facet of his being, hiding nothing from this woman who had crawled into his heart and taken root so very quickly. And she had withheld so little from him, allowing him inside her, sharing so very much with a passionate abandon that humbled him to the point of pain.

Yet one word, one breath from a slumbering consciousness had torn at him with a stubborn persistence, condemning his actions, raising doubt in a mind ready to offer her everything.

_Matthew._

Her husband was not supposed to have been there with them, should have respected the privacy of two people knowing each other in such a profound sense for the first time. He could not help but shake his head at the target of his frustration, berating himself yet again for being irritated with a dead man. How utterly ridiculous of him! After all, what had Matthew Crawley done to deserve this frustration other than loving his wife? Who had truly been the interloper in that bedroom last night?

The answer was all to glaring.

How many nights had she lain with Matthew in that bed, the two of them allowed to wake at their leisure with no fear of censure or discovery? Their child had likely been created there, memories of a life too short crafted upon its frame. Was his lingering presence in her mind an effort from beyond to keep her forever to himself? Or perhaps to guard her from a man who threw caution to the wind as he claimed her outside the protective walls of marriage? It was a protection he would offer her freely if he weren't certain its very mention would overwhelm her this early in their relationship, perhaps even frighten her away in the aftermath of what they had just shared.

Of course, after last night, did he not owe her an offer? Especially if…

"Charles—are you alright?"

He shook his head, drawing his focus back to the man in front of him even as the rest of him was still bound to the woman he had been compelled to leave sitting unclothed in her bedroom.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm afraid I am rather distracted this morning."

Mr. Branson stared at him thoughtfully, ascertaining more than he probably should.

"Well that's fairly obvious. Did you and Mary argue?"

Charles turned his face away lest more be seen, staring at the wooden boards before him as he saw nothing but her.

"Not exactly."

The hammering resumed, pent up emotion still rippling through his arms as nails met their end with unnecessary force. He pounded away at this uncertainty, beating down measured reluctance of doing what was right in fear of losing her. He had to see her soon, needed to ascertain exactly what she was thinking and feeling after all they had given and received in secret.

God, he loved her so much. And that fact was letting blood from him in a slow form of agony.

He paused again, breathing harshly, guzzling cold water in gratitude before rolling his sleeves up even further.

"I see what this is about." Tom's claim startled him, and he turned his attention back to the man, downing his beverage greedily before offering a reply.

"I thought it was about building a suitable dwelling for the dog."

A small sound escaped Tom before setting down the hand saw and crossing his arms deliberately. Eyes honed in with an uncomfortable penetration, and Charles returned stare for stare, unwilling to allow any incursion into the intimate realm where his thoughts now dwelled.

"You've gone and done it, haven't you?"

His heart stilled, his breath hitching uncomfortably as his mind raced to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

Guarded fear was palpable, radiating from Blake's stance in a manner that forced Tom to keep his distance.

"You heard me, Charles. You might as well own up to it."

His tongue thickened, the pasty texture of his mouth making him nearly ill. He would never forgive himself if he had put her at risk of further exposure and censure. Had he not promised to protect her, to shield her from threatening scandal or unnecessary difficulties? Yet he had permitted himself an enormous lapse in conviction for a night in her bed.

"I'm afraid you have me at a loss."

Tom shook his head, his disbelief evident as he stepped closer. Charles tensed immediately, feeling his body flex defensively as he prepared for a direct confrontation.

"You've gone and fallen in love with her, haven't you?"

The statement caught him unawares, washing over him in measured relief even as Tom's comment hit with precision. He relaxed fists that had balled tightly of their own cognition, relieved that there was no need to ward off a physical onslaught. Even though it was one he probably deserved.

"And if I have?"

Why could he not just admit the fact to the man? He had done so to her while she slept. Yet a fleeting stroke of her finger across his lips, an absolute understanding shimmering in hooded eyes, her whispered response breathed into his mouth had halted his overt declaration just before they had made love.

_I know._

She knew…yet she could not yet hear it, a glaring fact which did not bode well for her reception of a proposal of marriage.

"There's no need to get so defensive," Tom stated, hands raised in mock surrender. "I understand what it's like to fall for a Crawley woman." He took a step towards Charles, the other man's stance still rigid. "There's no getting out of it once you're in, you know," Tom continued with a shrug. "Once you're hooked, you're hooked for life."

Charles sighed audibly, his chest quickly deflating as he released a wall of pretense at this show of camaraderie.

"So I'm that obvious?"

A true chuckle escaped Mr. Branson at that point.

"I'm afraid so. A regular open book, so to speak." Tom's brow then creased slightly, the piercing gaze returning. "Have you told her yet?

Charles nearly laughed at what would be a completely honest answer. Yes—while she slept in my arms on my veranda…yes—while holding her naked and trembling in my arms…and yes—after making love with her and feeling her fall asleep across my body.

"She knows."

It was the only response he could offer.

Tom's stare did not falter, his lips pursing together as he ventured forward in his inquest.

"And how did she respond?"

Her response had been overwhelming, open-mouthed and heated, clutching and accepting. It had scorched his blood, branded his skin, marked him as her own in both flesh and spirit. But in the clarity of morning, would she regret what she had given? Want him to retract assurances of how he felt about her? His stomach hollowed at the very thought of such.

"Well, she hasn't run away yet."

Tom nodded appreciatively, rubbing his chin in thought.

"For Mary, that's really something." His gaze dropped with his voice as more personal territory was encroached. "It took me a while to convince Sybil, you know. That she loved me."

Charles relaxed his stance a bit, allowing his companion the freedom to elaborate.

"So you knew before she did?"

Tom chuckled again, wiping his own brow with a small rag.

"Quite a while before, actually. I think I loved her from the minute I laid eyes on her."

Charles could just see her sitting in that cabin, attempting to retrieve something from her bag, a tear-streaked face staring up in astonishment at his unexpected interruption as she held George to her tightly. He had entered that berth expecting an uneventful journey. Yet he had emerged a man determined to locate and learn more of the young widow who had shared much more than she had intended with a stranger on a train. Mary Crawley had effectively changed his life in a matter of minutes.

Yes—he understood being stricken quite early.

"How did you go about convincing her?"

"I had to be quite persuasive to convince her to marry her own chauffeur. It was no small feat, let me assure you."

A grunt of admiration escaped Charles as he began to visualize just what it would take for this man to successfully woo the daughter of an earl. He could only imagine Mary's initial response to her sister's choice of husband.

"We spoke quite a bit, of politics, of social injustice," Tom continued. "I was one of the only people who really took her passions seriously, I think. I actually listened to what she had to say and even disagreed with her, at times. Her family kept expecting her to conform to the status quo."

"But you convinced her otherwise?" Charles voiced.

"I had to," Tom replied, his voice tightening a bit. "I couldn't accept the alternative, that she wouldn't have me."

There it was, the flash of sadness, the cut of loss, all in remembrance of a wife deeply cherished.

"I understand."

He did, too early, and all too well. To have loved once was a precious thing, Charles mused, but to granted a second chance was a gift beyond measure, one he would not take lightly nor let slip through his fingers. Not if he could help it. The thought of being without Mary after being an intimate part of her stilled his heart. It was unfathomable, a chilling phantom he would not allow to take form in the physical realm.

But how best to woo a woman already his lover, to shelter her from any hint of scandal if she would not hear of marriage? He would figure it out. The alternative, as Tom Branson had so bluntly stated, was simply unacceptable.

"I'm glad you're not dragging your feet with her, actually," Tom broke in. "She and Matthew kept missing each other. Their feelings were so obvious, but somehow neither of them figured out what the other was thinking."

Charles nodded slowly, carefully considering what to say.

"I think it's something she regrets terribly."

"She said the very thing to me, once, a few months after Matthew died," Tom confessed quietly, his face drawing tight in concern. "She actually blamed herself for that, no matter how hard I tried to convince her otherwise."

"She takes quite a bit upon herself unnecessarily," Charles stated quietly, the seriousness of his expression leaving no doubt of its confidentiality.

"Mary always has," Tom agreed. "She doesn't trust other people enough to allow them to shoulder anything for her. She insists on carrying it all."

_You do not have to bear the responsibility for everything that has gone wrong in your life._

He recalled words spoken to her the night they had first confessed so much in the darkness. Her response to his assertion had chilled him.

_Don't I?_

He wanted to hold her so badly, craving her texture in his arms, needing the softness of her hair against his cheek. He would shoulder anything for her, do anything she required of him. But did he possess the fortitude to do what was best for her, even if it meant keeping a respectable distance? He prayed fervently that it never came down to that.

He then spotted her, standing muted in the distance. Watching him, waiting patiently. Asking quietly for his attention.

She had it.

Every facet of his being was honed on to her, his fingers tingling at her nearness. How in God's name was he supposed to even consider stepping back when all that he wanted was to gather her close and never let her go? Tom glanced over his shoulder, acknowledging what Charles's face had told him instantly.

Mary was here. And the two of them needed to talk.

"If you'll just excuse me," he uttered, receiving a wordless nod from Charles in response. She moved towards him slowly, in an almost dream-like state, speeding the pulse in his temples as he stared at her quite openly. Her wine colored frock billowed behind her as a tuft of wind moved between her legs, hair coiffed perfected with a shiny clip, jewelry expertly selected to accentuate what was already a picture of magnificence. Yet he longed for her as she had been, hair tousled by his fingers, lips reddened by his kiss, adorned in nothing but a sheet he wished to wear with her. He swallowed down arousal as best he could, knowing that nothing could help the swelling of his heart as she drew closer and closer.

God, this woman.

Her pulse was pounding, the heat that had begun stinging her cheeks at the first sight of him fluttering across her chest, down her thighs, her entire body tuned to him even as she felt rather awkward in her approach. Things were so different now. She had seen him, all of him. And he had done vastly more than simply look at all of her. The flush around her eyes only intensified. How she was to hold an intelligent conversation in his presence, she was entirely unsure. Lines had been rehearsed, thoughts ordered neatly, her ornate rug begging for a reprieve from the many paths worn across its surface. But all orderly plans fell with the steadiness of autumn leaves at the sight of him, collecting around her feet in a pile practically asking to be kicked over.

He was before her…she was so very near. And neither had any idea of just what to say to the other.

She reached the ground in front of him, a strong awareness encompassing them both. His scent overpowered her, the very same that had been ingrained into her pillow and tasted repeatedly by her mouth on his skin. Swallowing was difficult, words needing a voice held back yet understood. How would things change between them? Would he propose? Would she accept? Was there a child? She was shaken…he was lost, able to do nothing but stare, breathe, and wonder.

Her hand was gathered carefully by his own, eyes closing in the intensity of even this small touch. Other caresses were recalled, skin remembering such pleasures in detail, their vibrations absorbed into willing pores and carried throughout joined bodies with heated intensity. He raised her hand to his lips, needing to make contact with some part of her, to assure her, to convey how much, how very much. Her fingers traced his cheek, forging a connection in silence. She was confident he would not leave her, trusted him to stand at her side.

But how would they move forward from here? Could they cross back over lines of propriety they had leapt across last night without a backwards glance? Did she even want to?

He spoke first, fighting through a raspiness in his throat that had been absent just moments ago.

"How are you?"

The husky texture of his tone caressed her back, teasing her senses with a warm shiver.

"Rather tired, actually."

Her response tweaked his dimple, rendering the first true smile his face had felt since leaving her this morning. Her mouth drew up slightly in tandem, enjoying a lighter moment before the mood would inevitably shift.

"That's funny. I didn't sleep much, either."

A low sound of appreciation came from her, her cheeks flushing at his remark.

"What a coincidence."

Eyes met, gluing themselves together firmly. She saw a tinge of sadness, he a measure of fear. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her steady, keeping her close.

"Do you know how much I hated leaving you?"

He felt her release of breath in the gap of his shirt, not wavering as his fingers buried themselves in silken locks. She nodded, gazing at him intently.

"It was cold without you."

He couldn't help himself, pulling her into him, covering her body in arms that ached for her. She gripped him, freely absorbing him, allowing him to warm her, wanting so badly to escape the conversation she knew they must have.

"What sort of mess have we made, Charles?"

He drew back, arms never leaving her, eyes staring directly.

"I'm not sure, Mary. But I'm certain whatever it is, we can work it all out."

She nodded, needing to believe him, willing to hold on to anything he said as absolute truth.

"Do you regret what we did?"

Her eyes darted open at his question, looking into in a gaze uncertain, at the countenance of a man on the cusp of being wounded.

"No."

The word flew from her immediately, relaxing some of the lines on his face as his shoulders released their strain.

"Do you?"

Did she even have to ask? Was he not the open book to her that Tom had read so clearly? Had she not understood with a certainty what he had tried to tell her last night? But brown eyes subtly begged for an answer, the slight hitch of uncertainty they bore squeezing his heart.

"No. Not one moment."

She sighed into him, knowing at least they at least had this, no matter what followed.

"But I could never forgive myself if you were the recipient of any censure because of my actions."

She closed her eyes, knowing he had said nothing unexpected, yet wishing to remain in the realm in which they had just been standing. Where there was no fear of repercussions, where their choices were not subject to the condemnation or scrutiny of others. But that world was no more authentic than Rapunzel's lofty tower. Reality could not be avoided within the walls of a stair-less fortress indefinitely, no matter how tantalizing its confines.

"Our actions, Charles," she corrected. "We were both willing participants." She stared at him, daring him to correct her. "And if I remember correctly, I'm the one who pulled you into my bedroom."

She felt the wry chuckle emitted from his chest as he spoke.

"You didn't have to pull very hard."

She couldn't help but smile at his private grin, recalling the nervous thrill tingling up and down her limbs as she wordlessly guided him through the door.

"I wanted you there," she admitted softly, leaving unsaid the raw need she still felt just below her pores. "What happened was no accident, Charles. You took no advantage."

He flinched visibly at the word.

"You were hurting, Mary," came his rebuttal, lines of self-reproach creasing around his eyes.

"And you weren't?"

It had begun.

"Why should you be the one to carry all of the responsibility when it clearly belongs to both of us?"

He shook his head, cupping her face gently, needing her to understand.

"Because I want to shield you, Mary. Will you please allow me to do this?" The sincerity in his eyes pleaded with her.

"You can't shield me from life, Charles. No one can. Surely you of all people understand that."

Two pairs of eyes rounded visibly, both startled by what had just been voiced. Her heart sped at the conviction just uttered from her own lips, knowing there were no fortresses strong enough, no guarantees afforded, no manner by which to truly guard a heart left open. Yet she had just confessed a newly born resolve, admitted that she was considering stepping into a realm with him that bore the tangible threat of inflicting pain. And he had heard it clearly .

"I do understand. But that doesn't mean that I won't try."

Her heart constricted, her body sought him, and she brought his face to hers. She kissed him as she hadn't before, blossoming feelings urging her forward, even as she kept a grip on their leash. He met her there, leading her further with this new language discovered, one spoken with urgent tongues and lips, accentuated by gripping hands and private moans. How had he done this to her?

"Is it wrong to want you so badly again?"

Words breathed into her hair made her shiver as she clasped lapels greedily in her fists.

"No," she murmured against his neck. "At least I hope not."

What she truly wanted she hesitated to voice, quite certain he would never consent to its rather scandalous nature. She had no intention of giving him up, her feelings having become quite entangled with the man, yet to take steps to legitimize this relationship--here she faltered. She wanted everything to stay just as it was. Every other possibility frightened her: losing him, committing so soon to a marriage, the possibility of having another child. Why could things simply not pick up where they had left them, but with him in her bed? She shook her head slightly at her own folly. Childish, indeed.

"You know, Tom actually frightened me this morning," he confessed, drawing back just far enough to at her fully. "I thought he had found out about us, somehow."

Her stomach clenched, the conversation with her mother resounding with overt clarity. She hesitated a moment, then wordlessly took his hand and laid it flat. He felt her place something small and metallic upon his palm, and he stared down at it in overt curiosity. His breath hitched in recognition of his own button.

"Was this left in your room?" he managed, attempting to ascertain if any damage had already been done.

"Yes. By the foot of my bed."

An awareness flashed in his eyes, remembering all that had transpired in that very spot. He studied her wordlessly, noting though her face gave away nothing, there was something awry.

"Did you find this?" he inquired, weary of asking yet determined to know. Her open gaze revealed the answer, clenching his gut as he felt the weight of ugly accusation.

"My mother," she revealed quietly, feeling guilt descend upon his face and crawl over his skin. She leaned into him as a gesture of reassurance, to remind him that she was here, that all could still be put right. Even if she was not ready for the solution.

"What did she say to you?" he ventured, concern for her outweighing his own shame.

"Quite a bit, actually," she returned. "She was disappointed in me, of course, but I think she also understands our reasons."

"Oh, God, Mary," he exhaled, raking nervous fingers over his scalp. "I am so sorry."

"We've already discussed this, Charles," she corrected. "I am a big girl, and we both own the responsibility of what happened. Let's not apologize to each other over it, please."

He nodded twice, pursing his lips tightly as he considered their predicament.

"You should still not be subject to her disappointment," he insisted, grasping her shoulders in an attempt to convey his meaning. "You've had to deal with it before when it was unwarranted, and you should not have to carry it now."

"We cannot control how she responds," Mary returned quickly, "But she has agreed to give us the privacy to work things out between us as we see fit."

His gaze focused with piercing clarity. And she realized with a start that she had just thrown the door wide open.

He stared at her, trying to read her expression, scared of saying too much, but horrified of offering too little. He drew her to his chest again, reveling in the rightness of having her there, praying that she would not push him away.

"Mary."

His voice resonated in her scalp, stirring the same emotions it had last night when it had been the sole conversation dared in the dim light of her bedroom. "I believe you know how I feel about you."

Oh, God.

She hesitated as her knees shook, knowing the expression on his face would pierce deep regions heavily guarded. But she owed him that much, owed herself that much, drawing back to gaze into eyes that openly loved her. She felt hot all over, steadying herself as best she could, nodding slowly as her tongue rooted itself to her mouth. She feathered a touch across his cheek, keeping a tight hold on his shirt lest he dare move away.

"Yes."

His eyes tightened in a flinch of pain, and she knew that he wanted her to return those feelings, to assure him that they were not unwelcome. She reached up to his face, whispering lips upon his dimple in the only response she could utter at the moment. She could only pray he understood.

"I…I am quite uncertain as to how ready you are to hear this," he faltered, her throat tightening at the emotional unsteadiness of his voice. "But I want you to know that if you have any desire to spend your life with me, the offer is yours."

She couldn't breathe.

Her fingers gripped him harder, wrinkling his shirt terribly as her eyes sealed themselves shut to anything else around her. Was she even standing anymore? She felt somehow detached from her body yet rooted to this spot, so dreadfully unsure of what to say.

"I know this is overwhelming," he continued, the silence suddenly too much for him to bear. "And I don't want to pressure you in any manner, I assure you."

"I know," she breathed hastily. "I know."

_She knew._

"Please understand," she began throatily. "That I am actually happy with you." He stood thunderstruck, yet in a dreadful unease. "I can't explain it, but there it is," she continued, her tone deep and wobbly. "It's just that everything is happening so quickly, and marriage…I just…." She drew breath, determined to put into words what was hard for her even to grasp. "It's just so soon, Charles. And I don't regret anything we have shared so far, not one bit of it, but to marry you now would not be right for either of us."

Her words stung, even though they had been perfectly anticipated.

"Why do you say that, Mary?" He couldn't help himself, the question forcing its way out of a heart given too soon.

"Because I cannot stand the thought of you feeling pressured into a marriage because of last night," she exclaimed. "I don't want to lose what we have, to spend a lifetime wondering if you stayed with me out of obligation rather than choice."

"Believe me, Mary, I'm not asking out of obligation." The sincerity in his eyes tore at her.

"Really? Would you be proposing marriage to me this morning had we not made love with each other last night?"

She had him.

"No."

"You see it, don't you, that our hands are being forced whether we wish them to be or not?"

"Because of our own actions."

"Yes, because of our actions, but also because of the expectations of others," she insisted, needing him to understand. "What we have now is good, it's beyond good, actually, and I don't want to ruin it as I have so many other things in my life." He stroked her hair, brows creasing as he listened.

"And you think marrying now would ruin things between us?"

"Yes…no…I don't know, Charles," she cried out. "But I don't want to take that chance just yet. Do you?"

Her chest was heaving, the emotional outburst taking its toll upon them both. Yet they held each other steadily in a determination not to let the other go.

"I don't want to do anything that would push you away, Mary." Her chest hurt, her eyes stung, and she pressed herself against him, despising the choke hold of propriety in a realm so vastly personal. "But you must promise to tell me…to let me know if…" The remainder of his sentence lodged broken in his throat.

"Yes, of course," she whispered, feeling the odd flutter in her abdomen again. "I would never keep anything like that from you. Surely you know that."

They looked into each other, the same question staring back at them in a marked uncertainty…a question for which time would be the only answer. What an eternity the next few weeks had suddenly become.

"I want to be with you," she insisted quietly, hoping he knew this.

"And I want to be with you," he returned in haste, kissing the top of her head while another hand rubbed her back.

"Can we just see where this goes?" she ventured unsteadily. "And not make any hasty decisions we might come to regret?"

He sighed deeply, her solution neither truly viable nor unwelcome. But he would follow her lead for the moment, allow her some room to breathe to alleviate a rather stifling situation.

"As long as your mother doesn't kill me," he returned, bringing forth a much needed laugh from them both.

"I'll attempt to hold her off," she volunteered, touching his face, inhaling his essence, clinging to a blessed moment of ease.

"I actually have to journey to Rufforth Hall after lunch," he put in, stroking her knuckles. "I need to check on Aunt Catherine and take care of some rather urgent business of which I was just made aware."

"I wish I could come with you," she returned, making him smile in earnest. "But I'm afraid Mama would have rather large reservations about the two of us running off to your estate together after all that has happened."

"Reservations which would be well-founded," he admitted softly, kissing her forehead in a manner she felt in her toes. "I'm quite certain that having you all to myself away from prying eyes would not be the wisest of decisions at the moment." She smiled softly, even as her skin shivered at his implication. "Besides, I'll be back in time for dinner."

"Well, as it is the last dinner of this gathering, I should hope you wouldn't miss it."

"I wouldn't miss you for anything, Mary."

God, this man.

They stood in silence a few minutes more, relishing the breeze carrying the crisp scent of autumn while bracing themselves for changes this new season would bring. He kissed her soundly, taking her mouth fully into his own, attempting to drown out nagging worries nipping at their heels as they clung to what was yet again new ground between them. There was so much to consider, but enough had been said. They drew apart reluctantly, preparing to face the others with skin that felt freshly scrubbed. He took her arm, she held it willingly, dreading the moment he would leave Downton, swallowing down the impending sense of panic that would inevitably accompany watching him drive away. And as they walked quietly back to the house, Mary deliberately stifled the urge to look over her shoulder, suddenly quite wary of being observed as an unwelcome shudder crawled up her spine.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary visits Matthew's grave, and dinner at Downton turns into an eventful night.

Her pulse was finally decreasing its frantic pace, despite the marked speed she was maintaining in her stride. The needle-pricks of panic had begun the moment he had stepped away from her, pressing in firmly as he slid behind the wheel of his car, constricting her supply of oxygen as he drove away. He was leaving her, travelling a road he knew, tossing her a smile coupled with a chaste kiss and a promise to return later.

She could not take her eyes from him, even as the vehicle disappeared from her vision, even as her parents made their way back inside. Her mother had squeezed her hand in passing, a gesture of certainty to still her daughter's unease. But Mary knew better.

There were no guarantees.

Nausea threatened menacingly, her hands trembling as she attempted to swallow down the suffocating anxiety that had become her most unwanted companion over the past year. Yet no one seemed to notice. He had, she was certain. The crease of concern etched around his eyes, a most tender stroke feathered across her cheek, all had been subtly offered as a private assurance from one who understood. The art of missing nothing was one he had mastered, a skill she was certain had been inherited from his aunt. It was a trait she found both maddening and comforting, unearthing things uncomfortable, yet comprehending them in a manner that required little explanation.

And last night that attention to detail had been maddeningly relentless, leaving her trembling and sated yet wanting more…more of what they had shared.

More of him.

God, she could not allow herself to think about that now. It would do nothing but build frustration into a situation that had already become sticky enough. It was better that she focus her thoughts upon his safe return. Any other reality was just unthinkable. He had driven them to and from his estate but yesterday, her fear kept steadily at bay due to her own presence with him. It was illogical in the worst sense, she who struggled with the idea of being cursed somehow believing she could offer him modicum of protection simply by being with him in his own car. But feelings were wildly irrational, one reason she so often chose to shove them aside rather than sort them out into something manageable. She had to overcome this insatiable panic when someone she cared about journeyed from her sight, it was crippling.

But was there anything even remotely manageable about her feelings for Charles Blake?

Perhaps there had been but days ago, but so much had happened, emotions shared, bodies given, and lines crossed decidedly. When she was with him, it all somehow made sense, his persona simply too irresistible to ignore. But when distance placed itself between them, the utter ludicrousness of their relationship would strike her, forcing her to examine what in reality was happening between them.

An accidental meeting, a ride home, a courtship, a relationship--he appeared out of nowhere, sweeping her up into a dance she didn't know before she had been given the opportunity to decline. His wit intrigued her, his smile made her dizzy, and the utter determination he had shown to win her heart was dismantling her tower stone by stone. His pursuit should have pushed her away, but for some reason it kept reeling her in. His song beckoned her, his transparency binding her with rope she continually fed to him. Her own mind seemed to have deserted her when it came to this man, yet there were times when she was relieved by its non-interference. Her thoughts too often wounded her, entangled with memories still sharp enough to dismember and hurt.

But Charles made her smile.

The fear of loving once more, of binding herself to another inextricably yet again still haunted her, chilling her with a ghostly shiver when she allowed herself a lapse of happiness. If she dismantled all of her armor, if she left herself completely exposed to him, what would that mean? But had she not done just that last night? When she allowed her slip to slide from her body with a nervous deliberation that had left her legs shaking, when she had stepped naked into an embrace she trusted to shield her, she had opened herself to him in more ways than one?

And if something happened, if she lost him it would sever a part of herself yet again, she who was not even wholly repaired.

Yes, she had survived the unthinkable once, but just barely. The numbness in her limbs, the black void of her vision, the assuredness that everything good in her life had been buried with him on that afternoon that nearly destroyed her, it was all still there. Yes, it had been packed away, locked into a storage vault to which she still held the key. She had worn it as a talisman around her neck for months, always keeping it within her grasp, wearing her pain as a shield, flashing her anger as a weapon. Then it had been laid by her bedside, close, but not as cumbersome as she allowed herself to venture out of mourning with baby steps. Yet it was to the familiar she always retreated, the deadness of her own life a heavy cloak of protection from the world around her.

Then something unnamed possessed her, and she had dared a trip to London, a journey with her son to test her limits, to see if she could actually again stand on her own. It was a journey that changed everything.

From the moment he stepped into her berth and interrupted her grieving, that key had been nudged further and further away from her sight. He helped her remember how it felt to live, to give in to the lightness of laughter and allow the thrill of attraction to awaken cold nerves. She continually caught herself seeking him, craving his assurance, yearning for his grin. This courtship was certainly unorthodox, unearthing needs in them both that cried out to be tended. It was a cry they had both heard clearly, and one that had culminated in an act of indescribable intimacy after an acquaintance of a mere two weeks. Life with Charles Blake was madness, pure and simple.

Yet there was a simplicity about this relationship they had crafted.

Parts of it were logical, almost too logical, in fact. He wanted children, her son needed a father, the pair of them already adored each other. In this light it appeared so neat and tidy. But there were parts of her still wounded, scabs that still needed protecting, bruises upon her heart that were still tender to the touch. Charles soothed these places, perceiving their particular needs in a manner quite personal. But Matthew…

Her cheeks reddened, and she clutched her arms around herself protectively, as if trying to hide from her late husband the details of the night she had spent with another. It was idiotic, she knew, but there it was. She still sensed his eyes upon her at times, even though he had been gone from her a year. What was a year, actually? There were days that felt like an eternity and months that had vanished in a vapor of morning fog. At times she was certain she had lived a lifetime mourning Matthew, yet others when everything still felt fresh. Who exactly ascertained how long one should grieve? Was there a formula to answer when the heart was ready to be offered to someone else? And just where did mourning leave off and remembrance take over?

She knew where her feet were taking her, had realized their destination from the moment he pulled away from Downton. Another lifetime had been lived in the weeks since she had visited, her existence altered in a manner she would have scoffed at just weeks ago. Yet she stood timeless at the entrance, looking ahead steadily as she shook her head at her own foolish notions. After all, the dead had no answers to offer.

Legs carried her to his resting place, its impersonal stone still difficult for her to reconcile to the gentle man he had been. She brushed fallen leaves from his marker, a breeze stirring others at her feet as an unfamiliar struggle took hold of her. She wanted to speak with Matthew about Charles Blake. What in God's name did that mean?

"Hello, my darling."

The greeting was spoken clearly, no wobble in her voice, no trembling of her hands.

"I'm sorry it has been a while since my last visit. So much has happened, you see." She laughed in rueful silence at her own remark. "George is walking now. I thought I should tell you."

Images of her son's valiant efforts made her smile, her heart swelling as she envisioned those first halting steps yet again. Yet whose arms had caught him when he stumbled? Whose nose he had grasped as he squealed in delight?

"He has also discovered kites, you know," she continued quietly. "Although he calls them cats. It really is the oddest thing."

_Cat_ —the man he recognized, to whom he clung in lieu of the father he had been denied. _Cat_ —the man who rocked him to sleep when he had been ill, whom he sought out personally to read his favorite story. Charles was with her here, even now, just as Matthew was always with her when she was with him. It would seem that solitude was lost to her, these two men in her life filling her mind and claiming her emotions so completely that something somewhere always hinted at one of them.

"I've met someone, Matthew."

There. It had been said.

Nothing happened, and she was overtaken by a modicum of surprise. What she had expected, she could not have verbalized. But for there to be just silence, no tremor of the ground beneath her, no roll of thunder at an admission of such magnitude.

Perhaps it wasn't as unusual as she had believed.

"I wasn't expecting this at all, you understand, and I'm still not sure what do about it." A small gust of wind nipped at her ears, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her middle in a protective manner. "He's a good man, he raises horses, actually. He understands me, somehow. I never thought anyone else would ever be able to do so, actually. I'm not exactly an easy case, you know."

She was a bit startled at her own admission, biting her lower lip as she delved even deeper.

"He's so good with our son." She paused to swallow the sudden lump that had formed at her words, pushing past the constriction in her throat to continue. "And George just adores him."

_I adore him._

The words were a mere breath released into a community of stones, the reverberations of her confession striking her with force. She felt the first wobbling of knees.

"I may need to marry him, actually." The swell of a tear pushed through, releasing a breath held internally as a difficult truths were whispered. "Is this alright? I really need to know, you see. I still love you, Matthew. I know I didn't say it enough when you were here with me, but I did. So very much."

_So very much._

She knelt in the leaves, tracing his name as had become her habit, touching him in the only manner left to her besides the flesh of his son.

"Things would have been so much easier had you stayed."

Another tear, another release. She reached into her purse for her handkerchief and withdrew his into the breeze of autumn, the one he had given her when they had first met. The utter irony was not lost upon her. She touched the cloth to her cheeks, to her eyes, accepting this offering of comfort as she faced the reality of an actual life beyond the one she had lived. It was time, she knew it, the realization filling her with a terrifying exhilaration unlike she had ever experienced.

A choice was before her. And she was the only one who could make it.

"You don't need his permission, you know."

A voice from behind her startled her, her head darting around to look into the face of her mother-in-law. "Nor mine, for that matter."

Mary stood, clasping his handkerchief protectively to her abdomen.

"Perhaps not."

Isobel moved parallel to her, both women looking at the memorial to the man they had cherished as no one else had.

"How much did you hear?"

She sensed Isobel's sigh before it was heard, unable to look at Matthew's mother as she asked what could accuse her. Not after all that had transpired with a man not her son in her bedroom last night.

"Very little, actually," Mrs. Crawley returned quietly, finally drawing Mary's hesitant gaze. "But probably more than I should have."

She hung her head again, feeling the weight of their actions in a manner yet new, swallowing back the first true stirrings of guilt.

"I'm sorry, Isobel."

The breeze wafted around her legs, Mary suddenly quite aware of the distance Mrs. Crawley had left between them.

"You owe me no apology, Mary. None whatsoever." The words were true, yet they felt somewhat odd, as if a rift had formed in the fabric that had so tightly bound them together these many months. "But your apology does lead me to the conclusion that your possible need to marry Charles Blake has nothing to do with the future management of Downton."

She closed her eyes, forcing down a different kind of panic that now demanded her attention.

"No. It hasn't."

Isobel finally looked at her, at the wife of her son, this young widow no longer bound to him in life as she picked up the reigns of her own. Mary's hands were restless, her eyes downcast as she awaited the reaction due her.

"I take it he has made an offer."

Her silent nod spoke for her, the need to see Isobel's face finally trumping her mortification of giving herself away.

"This morning, actually."

Their eyes locked, standing before Matthew's gravestone in a moment that would define their relationship.

"Last night was difficult for you."

Mary released more air than she had realized was pent up, this one sentence revealing that Isobel held at least some understanding of what had prompted their actions.

"Quite difficult. For both of us."

Isobel nodded, staring into the trees. She had been there, with Anna, with Bates, had seen the struggle Mary had fought so stubbornly to hide, had noticed the ashen pallor upon Charles Blake's face as he sat through the rigorous birth vigil with an expectant father.

"Have you accepted him?"

The question struck her with a thud, reminding her of another wounded expression brought about by her refusal.

"No." Eyes met hers in surprise.

"But if the need arises…"

"If the need arises, of course I'll accept him," Mary interrupted in an attempt to defend her decision. "But there is still so much uncertain."

Isobel finally took a step towards her, daring to ask something of which she had never been assured.

"Were you certain of Matthew when he first proposed to you?"

Mary blinked in confusion, this inquiry catching her off guard.

"No, not at first, although I wanted to be."

Mrs. Crawley pursed her lips together, her brows linking themselves across the crevice of her forehead.

"Did you love Matthew then?"

How young they had been, sipping wine out of the wrong glasses, eating sandwiches at an ungodly hour, toying with each other in a rather childish dance that still tickled her ribs when she allowed herself to remember. The reckless thoughtlessness of youth.

"Yes, although I didn't realize the full extent of it then."

She had held back, fearing his reaction to her indiscretion, wondering if she would be happy as the wife of a solicitor, wishing she knew if her mother's child was a son or a daughter…so many things distracting her from the one thing that had truly mattered. She had loved Matthew. And she should have said yes.

"And do you love Charles Blake?"

She felt suddenly exposed, as if she were once again naked but standing before the judgment of many rather under than the loving gaze of one.

"I don't know," came her whisper, her eyes fixed upon the name of her husband carved in granite, steady and unmoving, so very unlike the pulsing fluidity of her own life at the moment. "I think it's beginning, but…" Could she say it, voice something even she did not fully comprehend? "It's very different."

Another step was traversed until they stood eye to eye.

"I think it's supposed to be."

Mrs. Crawley then turned and left her, giving her a smile but offering her hand no squeeze. A sadness enveloped Mary, dampening feelings already unsteady in nature. She hoped fervently that whatever damage had just been wrought between them could be repaired quickly, the distance between them but a temporary parting. But the wound Mrs. Crawley had just been dealt was emotional. And emotions had their own set of rules.

* * *

 

Where was he?

The remainder of the afternoon had drudged by slowly, tea with the ladies, details of the final dinner discussed with her mother. But she could not pry her unintentional conversation with Isobel out of her mind. And she anticipated Charles's arrival with a need that bordered on manic.

Everyone was now gathering, dinner nearly ready, yet he was not here. He had missed Granny's grand entrance, something he had admitted to enjoying each evening. Thankfully her arrival did afford Mary the opportunity to ease as far from the crowd as she could manage without being obvious, slinking into the background, observing and waiting. Her mother was chatting with Lord Gillingham, her father with the duke and Anthony. And it was then that she noticed something quite glaring.

Isobel was not here.

It was a small blow to her although she could not deny feeling a hint of relief. It would have been awkward at best to sit across from her with Charles at her side, to wonder what she was thinking, to second guess every expression. Having to manage under the watchful eye of her mother would be quite enough to persevere throughout the evening. Yet still…

She shook her head at her musings, looking to the clock once again, staring at the door, watching, waiting, praying to a God she hoped would listen.

"Why, Lady Mary. How utterly enchanting you look this evening."

The voice puckered her skin, every muscle cinching in revolt as she turned against her will to face him.

"Mr. Roquefort."

"Oh come now, Lady Mary, surely after as much as we have shared together you can refer to me as Edward."

Her very skin reeled at the thought of such, and she inadvertently took a step towards the door.

"After all that we have shared, Mr. Roquefort, I can assure you that there are many things which I would enjoy calling you, but your Christian name is not one of them."

There it was, the chuckle that wasn't, the mirth that sought destruction.

"I see we are to dispense with the pleasantries, then."

"As there is nothing pleasant to be taken from your company, I find them quite painless to do away with, actually."

His eyes became hard, her arms chilling at the smile he offered.

"But Lady Mary, you have only seen me at my most pleasant. I'm not at all certain you will like it when I deal with you otherwise."

God, how she detested this man.

"If what I have experienced has been you at your most pleasant, then I have no qualms in taking my chances with your worst."

His lip twisted with anger, his outer demeanor still unruffled.

"You think yourself so superior," he breathed, daring a step closer, increasing her resolve to stand her ground. "You always have. But it is prudent to remember who has the trump card when calling a bluff."

"And you think it is in your possession?" she shot back quietly, attempting to draw no attention to their altercation. "Simply because you know of Mr. Blake's late wife?"

She wore her mask of bravado convincingly, staring down at the man with glare designed to wither. Yet his chuckle unnerved her, and he leaned in too close, making her palms sweat as his proximity made her recoil.

"Do you really think that is all I know?"

She pushed down the pounding in her temples.

"I think you are a miserable, wretched dried up little man who enjoys tinkering in other people's lives to compensate for the complete lack of his own."

Her voice had been smooth, quiet and lethal, her brow as high as she could comfortably lift it. And his face was a controlled crimson.

"Do not attempt to back me into a corner, Lady Mary," he breathed nearly upon her, smearing her title in a most derogatory fashion through a tightened jaw. "Don't you understand? I know your true identity, in spite of your station and your tragic history. And I shall have no qualms whatsoever in exposing you for whore you really are before the evening is over."

His smile of superiority lasted but a second, his face then contorting in shock before she could formulate a response. Suddenly his feet were off the floor as a hand she knew well squeezed the collar around his neck.

"What did you just say to her?"

How he had sneaked in unnoticed was a mystery, one she had no time to sort out as he held Edward Roquefort in a vice designed to punish.

"Did I just hear you insult Lady Mary?"

"You misunderstand," Roquefort attempted, a cough racking his voice just before he was released to the ground and pummeled squarely in the jaw. He hit the floor with force, the screams of the ladies and exclamations of the men completely lost in the din as she stared at the man beside her. She had never seen such fury in his eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Her father took center stage, his infuriated gaze darting from Edward to Charles with an expression that demanded an immediate explanation. Yet he was completely ignored.

"I told you to stay away from her, Roquefort, and you have the nerve to threaten her in her own home?"

Charles was circling Edward now, watching for any sign of rebuttal, waiting for an excuse to hit him again.

"He did what?" Robert cried, looking to Mary for confirmation of such an accusation.

"Mr. Blake is mistaken," Edward began, recoiling quickly at the movement Charles made in his direction before he was halted from bludgeoning the man further by Tom's restraining arm. "Lady Mary and I were merely discussing a difference of opinion."

Tom held him fast, Charles's fury radiating from him with a force Mary could feel from where she stood. She quickly made her way to his other side, laying a calming hand upon his arm as she stared at him intently. She needed this to end now.

"Mary? Did Mr. Roquefort threaten you in any manner?"

Her father's direct question stilled any commotion left in the room, all eyes directing themselves squarely upon her as her tongue pasted itself to the mouth.

"It's over now, Papa," she voiced steadily, avoiding Charles eyes as his stare burned her skin. "Can we please just leave it?"

"What?"

Attention moved quickly to the woman on the fringes, the Duchess who rarely spoke stepping forward to have her say. "Your Neanderthal of an admirer just viciously attacked my brother without cause, and you stand there like some distant goddess and pronounce that it is over?"

"Your grace," her grandmother began, "Perhaps we should all simply sit down and…"

"It's alright," Edward cut in, pushing himself up from the floor as no one offered to assist him. "It wasn't actually Lady Mary with whom I had business, anyway." The rush in her ears was deafening, and she squeezed his arm in preparation for the inevitable. "You really are an idiot, Blake," Edward crooned, wiping blood from his nose as he stood. "If you had but taken the time to listen to me, I could have saved you such embarrassment."

Charles's muscles flexed through his jacket, but her fingers clutched him in a vice, begging him. Warning him.

"Would someone please kindly inform me what the hell is going on?"

Robert had reached his limit, his ringing question aimed at Mary. Her eyes held his for a moment, attempting to douse this fire already kindled before she was interrupted by the one she dreaded most.

"I would be delighted to tell you, Lord Grantham," Edward smiled stepping towards the earl and out of Blake's line of fire. "It is my duty to inform you that one of your guests has not been entirely honest with you."

Oh, God, he was really going to do this. Here-in front of everyone.

"What are you saying, Roquefort?" Robert inquired harshly, his voice on edge as he stared at the man in blatant dislike. "Are you implying that someone here is attempting to take advantage?"

"Don't listen to him, Papa," Mary pleaded, grabbing Robert's attention immediately, releasing Charles as she stepped towards her father.

"What is this Mary?"

"It's nothing but the pathetic attempt of your daughter to shield her gentleman friend from being exposed for the man he truly is."

Now all gazes fixed upon Charles, the utter confusion on his face wrenching her heart.

"What in God's name are you talking about, Roquefort?" Tom cut in, releasing his hold on Charles as he took a step in Edward's direction.

"I'm talking about the fact that Mr. Blake was previously married," Edward returned, clearly enjoying the flush of power thrust upon him.

"We are all well aware of the fact that Mr. Blake was married and then tragically lost his wife," Robert replied calmly, the twitch of his brow betraying his agitation.

"Yes," Edward breathed, looking to Mary directly as he smiled broadly. "But were you aware that his wife was Indian?"

She shut Roquefort out, shut everyone out, sealing her eyes to expressions of shock, to stares of accusation. She inhaled the air available, drawing it greedily into her lungs, searching for clarity, needing steadiness. Her eyes then opened, seeking him out immediately, moving to him through a fog, the sound of her shoes clicking across the floor unnaturally loud to her ears. She took his hand and looked to him with eyes unflinching. And he squeezed her hand in response.

"Is this true, Mr. Blake?"

Robert's inquiry was subdued, yet insistent. And as his gaze moved back and forth between them, Mary knew that he had already ascertained the truth.

"Yes it is. And I make no apologies for it."

Small details etched themselves into her consciousness, the owl-like quality of her grandmother's eyes, the angle of her mother's mouth hanging slightly agape, a thin line of sweat trailing downward into Charles's hairline, the iron set of his jaw as his gaze was fixed steadily forward.

"Did you know about this Mary?"

Her father's question called her out, yet his tone was non-confrontational.

"Yes. Mr. Blake informed me of this some time ago."

Her fingers fluttered in his grip, assuring him as best as she could.

"And this fact does not bother you?"

It was her mother who had spoken, stepping towards her father stealthily, her eyes fastened upon her daughter's in blatant fascination.

"No. Not in the slightest."

His thumb caressed her palm within the enclosure of his hand, and a piece of her melted into him. She wished someone would say something—anything—that this damnable silence would be rent asunder so that they could at least attempt to resume a bit of normalcy. But the only sounds she noticed were the forced steadiness of his breathing intermingled with the thrumming of her own pulse.

"Well, now that that seems to be settled, do you think we could go through for dinner?"

The swell of relief at her grandmother's words made her want to laugh and cry simultaneously, a bubbly sensation in her chest nearly rendering her giddy as murmurs echoed in the hall. Yet she dared not move…not until she was certain they had completely weathered this cloudburst.

"I don't see why not," came her father's reply, his stance and glare an immediate dismissal to Edward and a decided show of support for her.

"Thank you."

She felt his whisper in her hair, its path moving down her skin and taking root within with a rapidity that warmed her. She stared up at him, truly seeing the beginnings of what she had admitted to Isobel, feeling something deep cry out to her to grab on, to clasp tightly, to take a chance with this man and the delicious insanity he had ushered into her life. Her eyes lifted in a smile, a glorious release filling her lungs as nothing short of absolute adoration shone out of his gaze.

Yes—this was good. This was what she needed. And he was worth the risk.

"Do you mean to tell me that you're just going to leave this alone?"

Roquefort's incensed question cut through the air, halting footsteps already making their way to the dining room. Robert turned on his heels slightly, not even giving the man the consideration of facing him fully, staring at him as one would an injured rodent.

"That's exactly what I intend to do, Mr. Roquefort." Lord Grantham replied steadily, "If you do not care for my methods of dealing with my family, you are most welcome to leave Downton at any time."

They could not help the grins that were unleashed, an unabashed lightness weaving itself around them as the air seemed freer somehow. He took her hand and kissed it, tucking it into the crook of his arm as his smile unleashed a heady floating sensation across her limbs.

"Shall we, my lady?"

There was a decided possessiveness in the manner he addressed her, one that tickled the base of her spine in a subdued frenzy.

"It would be my pleasure."

She noted the spark of comprehension in his eyes, her need for time alone with him increasing with each second. There was suddenly so much to say. They dared a step from the place they had been fixed, Charles staring at Roquefort unabashedly as he brushed by the man in disdain. She should have noticed the duchess walking to her brother, touching his arm in a show of support, soothing his cheek which would bear quite a bruise. She should have taken note of the utter malice in her stare, but her attention was completely transfixed, her mind wrapped up in the man beside her, lured astray from an opponent unaware. She should have been prepared the disaster looming before them. But the words struck her mercilessly, rendering them both speechless as a foe unanticipated dealt a blow a changed everything.

"I had no idea that the hospitality at Downton extended so far as to sharing bedrooms, Lord Grantham. But since your daughter was gracious enough to open hers to Mr. Blake last night, does that mean that he shall be offering her the same courtesy this evening?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout ensues after secrets are exposed.

The absolute silence was suffocating.

Mary stood rigid upon disbelieving limbs, praying that her uneasy legs would not falter in a moment of weakness. Had she honestly heard Lillian correctly? Had she and Charles just been denounced as lovers while a houseful of guests served the role of unwitting audience to their liaison?

The very air seemed to press into her pores, making her face hot while her extremities chilled to the point of numbness. She heard nothing for interminable seconds, an internal roar deafening her to any external sound as she stared at their accusers. This could not be happening. But it was.

She would later wonder just how she had managed to continue breathing as everything in the great hall simply stopped. She would ponder how Charles had not flinched at the vice-like grip she held upon his arm as she fought down dueling urges to melt into the floor or promptly become sick upon its surface, fully aware that neither option was actually attainable. Their eyes locked in a disbelieving horror, understanding if they allowed themselves more than a momentary glance everything would be lost. She forced her gaze to take in the circumference of the hall, the blinking of lashes and gaping of mouths seemingly the only movement taking place in all of Downton.

"Now see here. That is enough."

Charles's tone was authoritative, any flicker of fear muted decidedly out of sheer will.

"I do not know why the two of you seem so intent to go after me, but there is no reason at all to involve Lady Mary in your insinuations." His nostrils were flaring, his body shaking slightly with a rage Mary knew he was hopelessly attempting to reign in.

"I do not make insinuations, Mr. Blake. I only state facts."

It was odd, really, how all perceived resemblance to Lavinia burned away instantaneously, the malicious gleam in Lillian's eyes so vastly foreign to any expression Mary had ever witnessed from Miss Swire. The fact that she had ever compared the two women at all now seemed an insult to Matthew's former fiancée. Charles's chuckle was forced, but only she would realize it, the calm in his expression at odds with the tension flexing in his arm just beneath her grasp.

"I would venture it more likely you state your perception of them, your grace, a rather unfortunate trait that seems to be quite prevalent in your family."

Her mouth hardened into a thin line, her lips formulating a response that was trumped without recourse by the earl himself.

"I am at a loss as to why you seem to think that you can abuse our hospitality in such a manner as you have this evening and still be welcome in our home."

Lord Grantham had stepped into the middle of the melee, the hardened edge of his voice cornering Lillian and Edward with precision.

"I refuse to allow either of you to continue to insult my daughter or Mr. Blake without the slightest provocation. You will both kindly have your belongings collected and leave Downton at once. Is that understood?" He turned on his heels, the increased volume of his tone leaving no doubt of his intentions. "Barrow, the Duke, Duchess and Mr. Roquefort will be leaving us immediately. Will you make certain that their departure is both expedient and without incident?"

"Of course, my lord," Thomas answered flatly, rounding with a quickness of step that for some reason left Mary unsteady.

"So you are not interested in knowing the truth of what activities transpire in your own home, Lord Grantham?" A shrill quality imbued her tone, the lack of reaction to her proclamation only raising the duchess's level of agitation.

"My wishes are none of your concern, your grace, nor is my daughter's life an open topic for speculation or unfounded innuendo."

Mary noted the throbbing pulse in her father's temple, a vein standing out clearly against the rising color of his complexion. She carefully avoided her mother's glance, uneasy of how transparent their exchange might be to watchful eyes.

"Then why don't you ask her?" Edward stared at Mary in blatant hostility, his challenge issued with a smirk of assured victory. She dropped her hands to her side, standing tall and singular as she forced her expression to remain steady.

"Because I have the decency not to call my daughter out on a personal matter in the presence of company," Robert began, the quiet timbre of his voice belying a turbulence just beneath the surface. "And because I trust her."

His final sentence was a physical blow, piercing layers of self-assurance that there would be no consequences to the intimacy which should have been their private affair. Her eyes fluttered shut as she steadied her spine, the thought of betraying her father leaving a bitter aftertaste she attempted to swallow down.

"Come now, Lillian," Edward cut in smoothly. "You can't blame the poor man, actually. Lord Grantham has already had to cover up one scandal when it comes to his eldest daughter, and an unseemly escapade with a local horse breeder can hardly compare to having a Turkish Ambassador fall dead in flagrante delicto."

Oh, God.

There was a rustle behind her, Charles rushing forward to attack before she could completely process what had just been spoken. Everything suddenly occurred in slow motion, seemingly encased in an odd dome of some sort and quite outside the realm of reality. Tom dashing to Charles's side in defense of her honor, Gillingham throwing himself into the fray in an attempt to end the violence, the duke grabbing his wife roughly by the arm and shoving her out of the ensuing chaos.

"That is enough!" Robert's voice reverberated from wall to wall, an unsteady pinnacle to the complete debacle the evening had become. Everyone froze, motion suspended yet again as Mary realized her toes were now completely numb. "Mr. Blake, would you so kindly escort Lady Mary to the small library?"

Her father's request was issued without a glance in her direction, his gaze glued fixedly upon Edward Roquefort. She noted the twitch in his jaw, the restless motion of his hands, the unsteadiness of breath that signaled his marked desire to have her out of earshot. Charles released Edward's lapels with measured reluctance, sharing a look with Tom before moving towards her steadily. His breathing was heavy as he took her arm, and she noticed a scratch on his cheek, fighting down an urge to touch it as he led her wordlessly from their accusers. She looked at no one but her grandmother, her skin prickling instinctively at the burn of direct stares bearing down upon her spine. Suspicious whispers tickled her shoulders, daring her to look back as she attempted to bat them away as she would persistent gnats at a picnic.

The entrance to the small library quite unexpectedly morphed into a gateway to most welcome asylum, one she entered with as much expediency as her pride could muster. The quiet darkness of the room seemed almost sacrilegious after the cacophony they had just escaped. Its solitude washed over her, her knees shaking uncontrollably in response to the living nightmare that had rudely encroached upon their evening. He walked her quietly to a small sofa, bidding her to sit before allowing himself to do the same.

"Oh, God, Charles."

Her scratchy whisper pushed itself though reluctant lips, her eyes focused squarely upon her hands as her head shook of its own accord. His arms were then around her shoulders, pulling her close, his head buried in her own as they clasped on to what remnant was left of the happiness they had experienced but minutes before.

"It will be alright, Mary. We'll make it alright."

She squeezed him to herself tighter, even as she knew his assurances to be empty. Both of them had been played as marionettes in some disjointed farce orchestrated by the Roqueforts for their own gain. And their strings had just been severed.

"How can it be alright? We've just been publicly accused of the very act in which we quite willingly engaged hours ago."

He drew back to look at her fully, the strain in his eyes wrenching her gut.

"I'm not certain whether anyone actually believes their allegations or not."

She felt any semblance of control sliding from her grasp, leaving her bereft as she frantically attempted to keep close simply a shred of it.

"Even if there is uncertainty, suspicion has been cast with a rather wide net, I'm afraid. And if Papa asks me directly…" She gazed into him, trying desperately to draw a measure of stability while standing in the midst of shifting sand. "I cannot lie to my father, Charles."

He covered her hands within his, stroking the tops of her knuckles with a tenderness he hoped would offer a draft of confidence.

"I would never ask you do that."

"I know."

She knew.

She knew he loved her, would defend her to his own detriment if necessary, would offer again for her hand if confronted with an ultimatum by the man who had basically sent them away. Whether her father's actions stemmed from embarrassment, censure or the desire to protect his eldest daughter, she was yet uncertain. But Mary was well-aware that answers would be forth-coming sooner rather than later as the earl would not long delay a mandatory audience with them. Whether his reaction would be welcome or distasteful remained to be seen.

"I think Papa believes them."

Charles shifted slightly at her nervous admission, a wedge of discomfort unsettling his seat as he chewed his bottom lip in thought.

"Why is that?"

"Because he refused to look at me. Didn't you notice?"

To be quite honest, he had barely glanced at Lord Grantham, concerned that something in his own expression might be all too revealing under the circumstances.

"No. I was a bit focused upon Roquefort and his sister."

The ghost of a smile flitted across her features.

"That's understandable."

He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her hand, gently opening her palm and skimming her pulse with lips that had loved her fully just last night. Her skin coveted his touch, and his mouth obliged, infusing her with an odd mixture of need and reassurance as it made contact with her palm.

"I meant it, you know. We shall make this alright, one way or another Mary. I promise."

She leaned into him as a sigh left her body, allowing him to engulf her for a moment as she feared it might be all they had remaining.

"Don't make promises you can't honor, Charles." He shook his head soundly.

"I don't."

His covenant resounded into her bones, and she suddenly longed to simply take his hand, grab George and flee. From confrontation, from expectations, from disappointment… from Downton. It seemed unbelievable that she would feel so completely trapped by the home she revered and cherished in a manner understood only by her father. Yet she had experienced a liberation unlike any she had felt before at Rufforth Hall, craving its non-judgmental walls and freedom of choice over the knowledge that too many were now watching them within these hallowed halls.

"Kiss me, Charles. Please."

Her soft entreaty instinctively drew his hand to her cheek, the whispered path traced by his thumb making her shiver. His lips descended softly, reverently, so similar to their first kiss shared just days ago in this very room. She pulled his face closer, parting her mouth, opening herself as much as she could to him under the given circumstances, attempting to chase away a gnawing fear that this was somehow the end of something just beginning. She welcomed his taste, the texture of his tongue, the all-encompassing sensation of just him in her arms as her hands began to shake. His lips withdrew languidly, grazing her temple—his place—as his hands firmly encircled her own. They sat in silence, quivering at the very touch of the other as breaths intertwined with a freedom bodies were currently denied.

"I love you, Mary."

She heard him with eyes wide open, clasping his declaration tightly, a quickening in her depths nudging her closer—ever closer.

"Charles, I…."

The door flew open, its force announcing the state-of-mind of the one who entered, drawing both of them hastily to their feet.

"I am somewhat mollified to know that the two of you are capable of refraining from inappropriate behavior without supervision."

Her father's tone was hard, his eyes angular as he closed the door behind him.

"Papa, we—"

His upheld palm silenced her, brokering no disagreement as he planted his feet in a stance of confrontation.

"Do either of you feel the need to deny the activities of which you have been publicly accused?"

Her stomach plummeted to her knees, the rest of her body following suit as she crumpled onto the sofa.

"Why bother? You've obviously already made up your mind."

Eyes locked, the struggle of wills bound by pride and heredity sparking dangerously in the space separating them.

"So you're admitting the truth of it? That you took this man to your bed last night after an acquaintance of no more than a fortnight?"

Defensive ire shot through her veins, pushing her forward on her seat as her eyes flashed dangerously.

"And if I did? I am an adult, am I not? I no longer answer to you when it comes to decisions concerning my personal life."

"You live under this roof, may I remind you," Robert nearly shouted, spittle flying from him as his body inflated. "You actions still effect the reputation and good-standing of our family, Mary, and have a direct bearing upon how people will perceive both you and your son."

The mention of George struck her again, knocking the air from her lungs as she raised her chin in a show of defiance.

"This has nothing to do with George," she began, convincing herself even as she aimed the words at her father.

"Like hell it doesn't."

The words reverberated, the close confines of the room only heightening the effect. "How can you delude yourself in such a manner, Mary, when you of all people should know just how much there is to lose in a situation such as this?"

"A situation such as this?" she mimicked hotly, a flush of anger patching its way across her neck. "Are you attempting to throw Mr. Pamuk into a conversation in which he holds no relevance whatsoever?"

How she had come to stand, she was uncertain. But she stood, nonetheless, held upright on muscles powered by sheer determination.

"No relevance?" Robert restated in disbelief, breathing harshly as he attempted to steady his voice. "How can you make such an assertion when he was just thrown in our faces a few moments ago?"

"That happened ten years ago, Papa, and—"

"Precisely my point!" Robert stepped towards her, his eyes having made no contact with Charles whatsoever since he entered the room. "If the shadow of Mr. Pamuk still lingers over this house after ten years have passed, how can you not be wise to the damage that taking a second lover outside of the bonds of marriage can wreak upon your life?"

"That's it, don't you see?" she fought through, her arms outstretched in a physical plea. "My life—not yours. If I am to live under a shadow, then I shall manage it somehow. I survived the aftermath of what happened ten years ago, I survived the war, and I survived Matthew's death. Don't you think I can survive the ramifications of choosing to take a lover?"

She saw him wince from the corner of her eye at her choice of words, very aware of the fact that their connection went beyond such a description, even if she wasn't ready to label it with a more official title.

"I believe you have become caught up in your own uncontrollable desires and that your behavior has become a complete discredit to your family." He breathed heavily, staring upon his eldest with an expression that suddenly chilled her blood. "What would Matthew say to all of this?"

"Lord Grantham. That is enough!"

His penetrating tone caught them both off guard, Charles daring two steps towards her father who rounded on him with the obvious intention to strike.

"How dare you inflict such pain upon your own daughter when she is doing nothing but showing you the honor of speaking with you honestly?"

"You forget yourself, Mr. Blake," Robert breathed. "You do not issue orders here, whether or not you have managed to insert yourself into my daughter's bed."

She saw his fists flex, his arm shudder in the effort hold back the full measure of his wrath.

"I'm not the slightest bit interested in issuing orders, but I will not stand by idly and watch you cut her to the quick with such thoughtless remarks."

Lord Grantham laughed unexpectedly, the complete lack of humor in his tone alerting Mary to the unsettled nature of the waters churning between them.

"I find it quite ironic how you imply that you wish to protect Mary when your own ill-timed advances have pushed my daughter into acting with scruples no higher than those of a woman of questionable repute."

"Do not speak of her like that!" His voice was rough and unflinching, matching perfectly the rigid gaze he threw back at her father as his jaw twitched dangerously. "If you have any censure to unleash, let it be at me and me alone, Lord Grantham. Lady Mary deserves none, and I shall not allow her to own any of it."

"So are you implying that she was unwilling?" Robert questioned incredulously. "For by the manner in which the two of you have been irrevocably attached to each other throughout the course of this disastrous evening, I have a very difficult time believing that."

"Would you both just be quiet?"

The words gushed from her authoritatively, her body shaking slightly from the force of their release.

"I shall not be discussed and argued over as if I am not in the room. This is not a matter to be worked out between the two of you while I sit back mutely and nod my head." She had their full attention, a fact which was oddly discomforting under the circumstances. "What happened between Charles and me was consensual on both of our parts, I assure you. There was no advantage taken, no question of whether or not he was welcome in my bed."

The relative shock that paralyzed her father's expression did nothing but agitate her, spurring her forward in her own defense as Charles attempted to intervene.

"Mary, I think that…"

"Don't you dare do this!" she interrupted decisively, refusing to be dictated to any longer as to the course her life should take. "Don't you dare attempt to turn what we shared into something it wasn't in an attempt to spare me from my father's displeasure."

"That's not what I'm doing."

The gentleness of his voice was nearly her undoing, tempting her to resume her seat and allow him to shelter her from the inescapable fallout.

"Isn't it?" His eyes held her a few agonizing seconds, imparting their desire to protect in a language unspoken. Yet hers held their ground, their stubborn resoluteness as palpable to him as if she had voiced it. "I told you before, I'm a big girl, Charles. And I don't need you to weather every storm in my stead."

His struggle was so evident, every fiber of his being begging her in silence to allow him to be her knight, her conquering hero, the one who would rescue her from whatever debacle she was now facing. But she could not allow herself to rely solely upon him, she realized, as her destiny was now finally clasped within her own faltering hands. She had survived worse than this….she had survived a brush with hell itself. She had survived.

_You're strong. A storm-braver if ever I saw one…_

Matthew had known, somehow, had realized that she was made of sterner material than she had ever realized. Charles did, as well, and had been attempting to open her eyes to her own inner-workings while she had been content to shove such knowledge blindly aside.

"I am quite capable of coming through one on my own."

The sound of her own voice was liberating, a lightness that did not fit her current circumstances imbuing her with determination.

"I know." His whispered affirmation tugged at her heart, and she wondered at the heaviness in his eyes.

"I do hope there has at least been a proposal of marriage." Robert's statement deflated her somewhat, her eyes falling to the floor as it was suddenly unbearable to look at either man.

"Yes. There has been."

His audible exhale drew her focus, and she watched as her father's body visibly relax for the first time since he had stormed in the door.

"I am relieved to hear it. And has a date been set?"

All moisture left her mouth, yet her legs held fast as she clasped her hands tightly together.

"I have not yet accepted."

Two sets of eyes flew to her in surprise, one confused by her refusal and the other stunned by the utterance of one simple word.

Yet.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Mary?" her father threw out incredulously. "You have just been publicly taken to task for your actions, and you are actually considering whether or not to accept Mr. Blake's offer of marriage?" They had reached yet another impasse. "There is nothing to consider here, you understand. You must accept him at once and set a date as soon as possible in case there is a child."

"Mary doesn't have to do anything." She stared at him in wonder, closing her mouth quickly as a small smile creased her eyes. "The offer is hers and hers alone, as is the choice. I shall not have her pressured into a marriage for which she is not ready, regardless of how prudent such a union may seem to you."

She hastily stepped between them, recognizing the dangerous simmer in her father's glare.

"So you are willing to allow a child—your child— to enter this world a bastard and drag his own mother to ruin?"

"Of course not," Charles spat in return, breathing heavily as he leaned forward. "Mary and I have already discussed this, however, and—"

"And what?"

She flinched at her father's shout, stepping closer to Charles unconsciously.

"Lord Grantham, do you really believe that either Mary or I would allow such a travesty to occur? After what I have lived through, after all I have lost, do you actually believe that I would ever turn my back on my own child or his mother?"

There it was, the raw pain he kept well hidden, his mask of composure sliding to the floor. Robert paused then, studying them both with an expression Mary could not translate.

"I'm not sure what to think anymore." His eyes flew to his daughter's, as they stared at each other yet again. "But half an hour ago I would have not believed that we would be engaging in such an unfortunate conversation this evening. It would seem as though my perception of what truly takes place within my own family is faulty at best, so forgive me if I have difficulty in assuming that either of you have actually thought through this situation."

An uneasy silence took over, an unspoken conversation of wills taking place between three people caught unawares.

"I can assure you, Lord Grantham, that even though Mary and I have known each other but a brief period of time, I do love her most sincerely and only want the best for her." She shivered at the impact of his declaration, unable to draw her gaze from him as his cheek twitched slightly.

"And do you feel the same, Mary?"

Her eyes rounded instantly, their focus shifting from one man to the other as speech momentarily deserted her.

"I have come to care very deeply for Charles," she finally managed, hoping he could sense the roots of what she was attempting to say.

"Then I fail to see why there is any reluctance to marry on your part." Her father's statement was straightforward, the confusion upon his features genuine as he sought her face for an answer.

"It's just so soon, Papa," she breathed, her brow creasing. "So soon after Matthew…"

Her chest squeezed again, the past invading her present as she sensed his presence all around her.

"But not too soon to instigate intimate relations?" His question quickly drew her out of her reverie.

"No. We needed each other."

There was no wobble to her voice, no doubt in her tone. She faced her father directly with eyes that implored him to truly listen.

"You have no idea what Charles and I have lived through, Papa, no understanding of what it is to lose your spouse so unfairly before their time."

"I have lost a daughter, Mary," Robert interrupted, "And I can assure you that the grief is just as crippling."

"Yes, I am certain, but quite different," she insisted softly. "And Charles has lost both, wife and daughter." She pursed her lips together tightly, swallowing down any fear of plunging forward. "At least you had Mama and she you to help grieve Sybil. Charles and I have both lost our partners in life. We have grieved in solitude, have felt half of our very selves torn from our arms. And yes, last night we dared to take matters into our own hands and offer comfort to each other."

"What you call comfort, others will call fornication," Lord Grantham put in, his voice quiet yet resolute.

"Let them call it what they will," Mary returned. "They are not living my life. I am."

He studied her, this child of his, this daughter now a woman who bore the determination of his mother.

"Then live your life, Mary. But know that I shall not allow an illicit relationship to continue between the two of you as long as you live here at Downton."

She hung her head in frustration, in anger, fighting back hopelessness that her plea was a lost cause.

"Are you asking me to leave?"

"I am asking you to either legitimize this relationship or put some distance between the two of you until this threatened scandal has had the opportunity to die down."

"What?"

All common ground seemed to have evaporated yet again as she gaped openly at her father.

"If the two of you continue such a close association as you have been doing, tonight's allegations will only serve to confirm suspicions that you are indeed having an affair. An engagement or a temporary separation would seem to be the only logical alternatives available to you at this point."

"And if neither of those options are acceptable?"

"He's right, Mary."

She could not have heard him correctly, her body turning towards him instinctively as she awaited a correction.

"Your father is right about this," he restated, watching her closely as he pursed his lips. Her heart was hammering, pounding against her ribs with a relentless drive.

"How can you take his side in this?"

Had they not just been in agreement? Had he not just stood up for her, supported her decisions and acknowledged her independence in the heat of her father's disapproval?

"I am not taking his side, Mary. I am taking yours." Her chest began to rise and fall rapidly, his meaning lost in translation as she sought to understand. "If I remain nearby, it will be you and George who bear the brunt of gossip and innuendo, and I could not bear that."

"You cannot leave."

Panic reared its ugly head, strangling her insides at the thought of him going away. If something were to happen…

"Only for a while," he began, turning to her father in a silent plea. "Lord Grantham, would you please allow us a few moments to discuss this matter privately?"

The earl pondered but a moment before nodding with measured reluctance, exiting the room slowly as if he were still unsure of the wisdom of such an action.

"How can you even think of going anywhere after all that has just transpired?"

"It's because of what has happened that I must. Don't you see that?"

"No."

Their feet remained planted, but a gulf had been formed, one she felt keenly as it carved out a hollow in her chest.

"I have been invited to a private horse sale in America—Kentucky, actually," he continued, taking her hand gently within his. "I can go, take care of business, and then return within two months. Hopefully by then—"

"Two months?" She stared at him in disbelief, wanting to throttle him for even suggesting such a thing. She had just become accustomed to his presence in her life, allowing the fragile shoots of emotion to take root within a heart still overly tender to the touch.

"If I'm not here, Roquefort is likely to leave well enough alone and everything should settle down nicely."

"So now we are allowing Edward Roquefort to dictate our future?"

"For God's sake, Mary, would you please listen to me?" He regretted the outburst the moment in flew from his lips, his hand ransacking his scalp as he inhaled deeply. "I promised that I would protect you from scandal, that I would never do anything that might hurt you."

"You're hurting me now!" He drew her closer, feeling the rigid stance of her body as fortresses dismantled attempted to rebuild themselves. "How can leaving me be a solution when you profess to love me?"

He closed his eyes, tasting the irony of the fact that just hours ago he had stood outside, wondering if he would possess the strength to walk away from her if it was necessary.

"Because if I stay, Roquefort and his sister will make our lives as much of a living hell as they can. I don't know why he has formed such a vendetta against me, but that is neither here nor there. He is taking his displeasure out on you, and that is unacceptable."

"And your walking away is the solution?"

"Either that or becoming engaged, and I know where you stand on that subject."

Was it anger that she heard, or deep hurt edged with frustration?

"And how do you know I'll still be here two months from now?"

The steel edge in her inquiry sliced him open, and she stepped away from him, needing some distance to clear her mind.

"I don't. I can only hope and pray that you will still have me when I come back."

She swallowed down the urge to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and assure him of what he wanted to know.

"So that's it? You've made your decision, and I must live with it?"

She would not allow him to see her terror, to witness the trembling in her chin at the thought of losing him forever.

"It's not like that, Mary."

"Then what is it like? Please explain this to me, Charles, for from where I'm standing it certainly seems quite clear."

He stepped closer, willing her not to move, touching her shoulder in the same manner he would a skittish mare.

"I shall not go anywhere until we know whether or not…"

"I'm pregnant?" She finished his thought for him, waiting for the response she knew would come.

"Yes."

She shook her head, unwilling to accept what was taking place even as she knew she could not stop him. Charles Blake was every bit as stubborn as she.

"That could be weeks from now, you realize."

"I know." He felt her slipping away slowly, his mind refusing to allow it as his hands clasped her shoulders.

"Doesn't that defeat the entire purpose? If you remain here for weeks upon end, I don't see the need for you to leave at all."

"I can stay in London," he put forth, hating the very words he spoke as her eyes hardened.

"Just go, then. That's what you really want to do, it would seem."

The iciness in her voice bit him harshly.

"I don't want to go anywhere without you, Mary. You must understand that!"

He was bare before her, more naked than he had been just last night within the warm confines of her bedroom.

"But I don't," she whispered regretfully, daring to touch his face one final time. And with that, she turned and left him, fully aware of the pain she had just inflicted, her raw ache for him increasing with each step, even as she left him behind. 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Charles have a confrontation.

The click of the door closing behind her was nearly non-existent, yet the dark solitude felt all-encompassing. The silence filled her pores, granting eager lungs the freedom necessary to take in as much air as they could, a luxury that had been oddly lacking in the atmosphere she had just fled. She had managed the short journey miraculously without incident—without question. Out of the small library, directly to the staircase, up the steps and finally down the hall to the nursery. She needed to see him, to gaze at the one constant in her life, to touch dark curls already mussed in the throes of sleep.

And there he lay.

His teddy bear was snuggled in beside him, his thumb still enclosed sweetly in his mouth. How innocent he looked, his beauty a marked contrast with the ugliness which she had confronted from so many angles. A tear she had managed to stifle downstairs found its freedom, dripping onto her dress as she gazed down at her son. Her mind suddenly took her back to their first meeting, watching George take up with a certain stranger in a berth, dropping his toy only to have it scooped up repeatedly with that blasted smile.

_It's a game now, you know… he'll just drop it again._

_It's alright. Sometimes things of importance need to be repeated freque_ ntly.

Things of importance.

She quenched the sudden urge to nab the teddy for herself and rock it in her embrace, the need to hold something tightly almost overpowering. Empty arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to assuage a pulsing ache. So much now lost forever, so much brutally taken. Yet she had just turned her back on the very person who had awakened senses long buried and had bolstered her rather infirm ability to hope. What in God's name was she thinking? To be honest, she wasn't thinking at all. Panic had mercilessly overthrown reason, dictating the course of her actions, even as she had vehemently attested her desire to steer the direction of her own life. But the possibility of impending tragedy haunted her relentlessly.

If Charles left, something could happen—something devastating. It had before. Why should her luck now suddenly change? Just when she had finally dismantled defenses crafted to protect and allowed herself to simply revel in the beauty of what her life had become, it had been ripped from her embrace and thrown at her feet. The pieces had taken a year to reassemble, and she was well aware that gaps and holes still existed in the framework. But it was at least a solid mass again, a mostly-whole entity weaker than it might appear to the naked eye, but not to a most keen observer.

An observer like Charles.

And if he left, if something happened to him…she could not even contemplate the thought.

A journey to America—impending disaster seemed to be etched across its very description. And two months—how much could go wrong within such a vast time frame? Too much. Just how would she manage with him so far away, out of reach for weeks on end? Tired legs gave way willingly, the rocking chair supporting her as she was stunned yet again by the course of her own thoughts. How had she become so dependent on the man so very quickly? She had managed without Charles Blake her entire life, had dealt with staggering grief quite apart from him. She had learned to survive, adapted to a rather solitary existence, taken on the responsibilities of serving as both mother and father to her son, all in ignorance of his very existence. Her capability in maneuvering life without him was not the actual issue sitting heavily upon her chest. No. The fact was simply that she did not want to do so.

She wanted him with her, desired his company, longed for the manner in which they bantered and flirted, ached for the physical and emotional stirring she felt in their kisses. He fueled her laughter, made her feel desired and valued, not in the same manner as Matthew, yet a deep sensation still lovely in its own right. She was experiencing the beginnings, the stirrings of something so new and exquisite it terrified her.

God help her, she was falling in love with Charles Blake. But he was leaving her for America.

The horrid irony pounded uncomfortably in her temples. Was it possible to feel such things so quickly? Would he stay if she confessed the truth of her feelings to him? Was it even fair to admit something just conceived before she was certain that it would continue to grow? She cringed at the possibility that he might think she was using sentiment as a ploy to keep him in England, to somehow force him to concede to her will. Wouldn't it be better to put these questions to him directly rather than debating them with herself? Probably—but she couldn't bring herself to take that leap.

Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Dear God, she felt like such a coward.

He would return tomorrow, she was certain, knowing enough of his character to discern he would not want any misunderstanding to fester between them. What exactly was she supposed to say when matters had just gone so horribly awry? She felt no compunction to apologize yet had no desire to keep him at arm's length. Perhaps a good night's rest would help her sort everything out in a manner she herself could comprehend properly. How she envied George the guileless sleep of the young.

"Damn you, Charles Blake."

The nursery absorbed her whispered frustration, its walls observing in silence the form of a woman still straddling a precarious tightrope intersecting two lives. Cold fingers massaged her temples in the knowledge that this high wire act was quickly drawing to a close and decisions would have to be made as to on which side she would disembark. The carnage of an evening that had begun with such promise left her in no doubt of one fact: time would not wait upon her indefinitely. Yes—a time of reckoning was rapidly approaching, perhaps even growing within her own womb. And it would arrive upon her doorstep sooner rather than later, whether she felt ready to face it or not.

* * *

 

His stride was deliberate, his eyes unwavering as he made his way to the front door. Thank God he met no one on his path, the clinching of his fists alerting him all too loudly of an insatiable urge to hit something. Or someone. Edward Roquefort would be an ideal target. For once, he actually wished the man would appear out of thin air. Then he could finish what he had started before having been forced to cease giving the idiot his due.

The bloody bastard.

He would never forget the horrified shock frozen upon her slackened features as ugly accusations targeted them with a chilling accuracy. The grip of her fingers still burned on his arm, the absolute stillness of her body as they stood in disbelief continuing to unnerve him. The debacle had affected her more than she would ever admit, her need to keep her composure intact overtaking the baser instinct to express what she truly felt. He had been rendered speechless, caught completely unawares in a situation he should have anticipated. And as if the public declaration of their intimate act had not been bad enough, Roquefort had then tossed Mary's past into her face, making her revisit yet again an episode that still bore the power to hurt her.

Damn it! How had he allowed things to go so horribly astray?

They had been happy—he deliriously so, tucking her arm proudly within his own as she stood unflinchingly at his side. His wife's ethnicity had become a weapon wielded in a failed attempt to maim, yet she had not faltered, taking his hand rather than taking her leave. But the second strike launched had been brutal, dragging Mary by the ankles into a quagmire in which he refused to let her sink. His face flushed hot with anger. Anger at the absurdity of the entire evening, at the pitiful attempt of shaming them both for an act none but the two of them would ever fully understand. Anger at Roquefort, his vindictive sister, at Lord Grantham for speaking to Mary in the condescending manner in which he had. The man had actually thrown Matthew in her face, for God's sake, a pathetic attempt to forcibly conjure guilt out of a woman who had faced enough unmerited shame in her life.

But mostly anger at himself for allowing this situation to exist in the first place.

He should have been strong enough to leave her bedroom last night. He had known the risks, was fully-aware of what damage it could inflict upon both her and George if their actions were made public. Yet emotion had overpowered reason, and he had willingly embraced the lure of desire, turning a blind eye to the reality of ugly consequences until the act had been completed. His lack of self-discipline could now cost him everything.

"Looking for something?"

He turned quickly, ready for a confrontation, even though the bearer of the voice was not his intended target.

"My car, actually."

Tom stared at him, the hardness in his eyes clearly readable even in the darkness.

"I know where the cars are kept," Mr. Branson replied, his voice surprisingly even. "And I might help you track it down, if you'll answer something for me."

Charles swallowed down threatening dread, pressing irrational anger as far into his inner-recesses as he could.

"And what is that?" His heart hammered loudly in his ears.

"What's your plan?"

A measured silence hung between them, the sounds of distant frogs the only noises discernible.

"You want to know if I have proposed to Mary."

Steps were taken in his direction, Tom's hands deceptively encased in his pockets as if they posed no threat.

"Yes. That's right."

He stopped within striking distance, yet made no threatening move. Charles returned stare for stare, relaxing his own fists as he drew a cleansing breath.

"I have."

A terse nod of the head was all he received.

"Before or after all of this mess tonight?"

Ah—the true issue at stake had risen to the surface.

"Before. This morning, actually."

Branson's posture relaxed perceptibly.

"That's what I assumed, the way both of you were acting. And what did she say?"

He felt his own shoulders slump.

"She prefers to wait."

Tom closed his eyes, shaking his head as he turned and paced a few steps away from him.

"I can't say that I'm surprised," he put in, rounding his direction and moving back towards Charles. "She has come a long way, but Matthew's death is still fresh in her mind."

"Something you and I both understand," Charles added, his eyes dropping to the ground.

"All too well, I'm afraid." Tom's expression softened a bit, and he looked around him, searching for words as both men remained immobile in the dark.

"She may well change her mind," he finally put in, watching Blake steadily. "Decisions are not her strong suit, quite honestly."

"Yes. I am aware of that fact." He shifted slightly on his feet, staring at his shoes. "But she is also rather stubborn."

Tom nodded slowly, a small grin emerging as his hands returned to their enclosures.

"That she is. It's a family trait, you understand."

"Yes. And one with which I am all too able to relate."

Three strides were taken in his direction, Charles watching Tom carefully as the man made his approach.

"And you do love her? Truly?"

He rubbed his scalp in an attempt to calm frayed nerves.

"With everything I have."

Tom gazed at him in silence, narrowing his eyes as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

"She needs to reconsider your proposal, I think. It would make things much easier on her and George if the two of you announced an engagement. By tomorrow, she may have calmed down enough to see that." Charles pursed his lips tightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Perhaps. But I don't want Mary to feel forced into anything, not even marriage with me. This is a big step for her, and one I never want her to have cause to regret." A lone breeze ruffled hairs on his neck, the need to claps her in his arms a tangible ache. "I just hope I haven't pushed her too hard."

"I doubt it," Mr. Branson put in. "You've gotten to her, and that's a feat in itself. Besides, Mary is a pragmatist at heart. I remember Matthew telling me that once, and it's a trait of hers I've witnessed for myself on many occasions."

Charles shook his head decisively.

"Would you have wanted a pragmatic marriage, Tom?"

The other man's chest deflated.

"No." His heart squeezed tightly, the physical sensation of it nearly painful as he ached for her anew.

"I love her."

Even the night creatures seemed to hush at his declaration, the darkened stillness almost unearthly.

"Well, I guess you've earned yourself a second chance then," Tom replied quietly. "As far as I'm concerned, that is. As for Lord Grantham…"

"As for Lord Grantham, I'm quite certain it's a miracle that I walked out of Downton with all of my parts intact."

This actually brought a chuckle from Brason as he rubbed his chin.

"I remember feeling the very same way. Right after Sybil and I first announced our intention to marry." The lack of aggression facing him now prompted him to lower his defenses.

"Did you have an audience as we did tonight?"

Tom's nod preceded his answer.

"Yes. Her entire family plus a few others."

"It seems unfair to have to make private matters subject to public scrutiny, doesn't it?"

A wry smile met his inquiry.

"Terribly unfair."

They stood in silence another moment, a gust of wind bringing an unexpected chill as dry leaves flurried in its wake.

"Shall we go and find your automobile, then?" Charles looked back to the house, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, stifling down the urge to bolt back through the front door and grab her up in his arms.

"Yes. I suppose that would be best."

The crunch of gravel seemed overly-loud to his ears, each step towards his car a step away from Mary that pulled at his insides mercilessly.

"Just give her some time," Tom reasoned once they arrived at the garage. "She needs a bit of space to collect her wits and reason."

"Should I not come back tomorrow?" Charles questioned, his brows knit together. "I hate the thought of leaving things as they are between us."

A heavy sigh escaped Tom.

"That's up to you, of course, but I think I would give it another day or two. Both of you might be able to think a bit more clearly."

The thought did not settle well with him, but following his own judgment had caused nothing but heartache tonight. Perhaps he should heed the advice of one who had known her longer.

"I could take care of some matters in London," he mused aloud. "Then return in a couple of days to check on her. But I don't want her to think I have abandoned her after…" His voice faltered, his hand resting on top of his automobile. "After all that has happened."

"Then send her a message, let her know she's on your mind and that you'll see her in a day or two."

The idea was reasonable—almost too reasonable to work.

"I don't know. Let me sleep on it."

Tom nodded in agreement, backing up two steps as Charles eased into his vehicle.

"Do you really think you'll be able to sleep tonight?"

Charles smiled in spite of himself, the gesture devoid of mirth as he looked Tom in the eye directly.

"I haven't slept well in five years, Tom." And with that, he drove away from Downton.

* * *

 

It could not be morning yet. The pillow pulled over her face in frustration only accomplished so much, effectively blocking the light peaking in but doing nothing to placate an overly active mind. Sleep had alluded her for most of the night, her clock quickly becoming an adversary she had nearly thrown across the room at some ungodly hour. Images of what had transpired the night before had plagued her, and she realized with a bitter irony that losing sleep because of his presence in her bed was immensely preferable to staring at a cold ceiling with only covers for a companion.

She missed him terribly. And she half-hated herself for it.

He would come today, and she must be ready. What would she say to him? How would he respond? The same questions that had denied her rest still flittered unanswered in a mind too exhausted to formulate answers, and she rubbed her temples in an attempt to ward off a headache. It was no use. An ache had already formed, one not confined to her head.

The morning progressed, her thoughts never stilling, her stomach a ball of anxiety. She thought of him as the Gillinghams graciously took their leave, the subject of last night's debacle never crossing their lips as cordial good-byes were spoken. Even George's presence could not soothe her as she anxiously anticipated his call. Would he arrive before lunch? No-it was much more likely that he would appear in the afternoon, giving them time to discuss matters but affording him the opportunity to leave if a dinner invitation was not forthcoming. But luncheon was served, and there had still been no word.

Where was he?

By mid-afternoon, she was restless, angry, and more hurt than she cared to admit. There had been nothing, no call, no message, just a stubborn silence that made her feel empty. Had she pushed him further away than she realized when she turned away from him last night? A sickening thud resounded in her abdomen.

"Excuse me, Lady Mary."

Thank God—a distraction.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes. How can I help you?"

A piece of paper was extended in her direction.

"A message has just arrived for you, my lady. I was instructed to tell you it was of utmost importance."

A message. Finally. It was from Charles—she was certain. The paper trembled slightly in her fingers as she accepted it, her cheeks warming at the contact. If only his words were accompanied by his presence.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

She had to be outside when she read it, away from walls that listened and panels that watched. Feet swiftly carried her out the door around the property, until she stood underneath the tree that still bore a certain kite in its branches. She stared up at it, determined to ask Barrow to have the contraption extricated from captivity. It was sad to see it so hopelessly entangled, stuck in a labyrinth of branches when it was designed to soar weightlessly. The wind read her thoughts, billowing her skirt in response as she clasped the message tightly to her chest. Her back found support against rough bark, and she nervously addressed the message she had awaited all day.

His script had already become fondly familiar, and his words blurred a moment before her pupils focused properly.

_My dearest Mary,_

_Please know how sorry I am for the manner in which we parted last night. I accept full responsibility for the unfortunate events that occurred, and you most certainly have every right to be angry with me. I do hope, however, that we shall be able to speak again tomorrow if you will grant me an audience. I am away to London this afternoon to tie up some loose ends in hopes of making right what I can of this horrid situation._

_I love you. That has not and will never change, regardless of any misunderstanding between us. I miss you terribly, and pray we can reach some common ground before I depart for America._

_Always at your disposal,_

_Charles_

Before I depart for America.

There it was—his plan, his blasted idea. She re-read the note, studying words, learning them by heart as a mixture of warmth and anger warred within her. He missed her—loved her, yet he was still planning to leave. To follow this path he had marked for himself in a misguided attempt to protect her honor. That stubborn oaf of a man. Did he not understand what the thought of him leaving did to her? How she would not rest for weeks, wondering if a misfortune of the worst sort had befallen him? Perhaps he did not read her quite as well as she thought he did. Surely he would not knowingly demonstrate such a complete disregard for her feelings?

She pushed herself away from the tree's support, turning to look back upon it as she haltingly caressed its surface.

_I miss you, and I pray we can reach some common ground between us before I depart for America._

"So do I, Charles," she whispered into the breeze. She then pulled her arms protectively to her chest, stifling back a fear that no good would come of their impending conversation.

* * *

 

He stood staring at Downton, summoning a courage beyond him, praying silently for the wisdom he too often lacked. He sighed, clenching his fists as he looked towards the upper floor. What was she doing? How had she responded to his note? Would she even see him at all?

He stepped to the door, moving with a nervous determination, feeling rather like an awkward school boy calling upon a girl he admired from afar. He should have brought flowers, he suddenly mused, the thought striking him as both absurd and damning simultaneously. Flowers wouldn't begin to touch the damage he had inflicted.

Barrow led him to the sitting room, and he stood in an uneasy silence staring at walls that now seemed impersonal. Yet here just nights ago they had confessed so much, secrets shared in shadows forging a bond more powerful than either had anticipated. Pieces of himself had become her own when she had held him weeping in her arms, his tears fragments of a soul willingly pressed into to her keeping. This bargain was sealed later with a stroke on his cheek and a trembling kiss, pushing him soundly past the point of no return with this woman who now claimed his heart.

He could not lose her.

Then she was there.

Her entrance was muted, yet her presence overwhelming, the scent of a favored perfume quietly summoning him closer. He obeyed without thought, moving in deeper without knowing the direction of the tide. Eyes met, bodies stood immobile. They stared at each other, so much stirring, yet so much uncertain.

"Thank you for seeing me."

The timbre of his voice stroked her vertebrae from across the room.

"I expected you yesterday."

His face flushed, his hands suddenly restless.

"I wanted to see you sooner."

Her brows knit together tightly.

"Then why didn't you come?"

He noted the shake in her hands, the fluttering of eyelids as she licked her lips nervously.

"I was advised that it might be prudent to give you a bit of time and space."

She stepped towards him shaking her head.

"My father's attempt at wisdom, I daresay," she huffed, dropping her arms to her side.

"No. It was Tom, actually." The surprise was evident on her face.

"Tom?"

"Yes. We spoke just before I left last night," he offered, daring a step nearer. "He told me that a bit of time might provide both of us with some clarity."

Her eyes dropped momentarily to the floor before reclaiming his own.

"Do you feel the need to distance yourself from me?"

He moved forward, taking her hand gently.

"No. But you might need some distance from me."

She couldn't deny it, her heart squeezing painfully as her mind tried to reason.

"You're really going, aren't you? To America?"

There was a measure of calm in her voice that scared him.

"I think it is our wisest course of action."

She swallowed through the constriction in her throat, forcing her chin not to wobble.

"And if I can't accept that?" Her whispered question nearly broke him, and he drew her palm to his lips. She leaned into him, closing her eyes, needing more of him than was decidedly prudent.

"It won't be for long. I assure you." Her head shook, denying his rationale as emotion pushed in.

"That's not what I meant, Charles."

Dark eyes searched each other, and she nearly faltered when his thumb caressed her cheekbone.

"What is it, then?" Moisture suddenly pooled in her eyes, and she broke free of him, turning quickly in an attempt to wipe away evidence of her weakness.

"It's just that…" Her voice broke, then his hands were on her shoulders, holding her steady even as she wanted to flee. "What if something happens?"

He turned her slowly to face him, the concern in his expression too much for her.

"If you're pregnant, you mean? Because if there are any indications that your are—"

"No," she shot back, already tired of this line of conversation. "This is not about whether or not there is a baby." Her breathing quickened, the sudden concern that a child might be of more importance to him than she leaving her cold. "Besides, you needn't worry about that possibility anymore." She moved away from him, unwilling to risk the possibility of disappointment in his eyes.

"I don't understand," he began, ravaging his hair. "I thought you said it would be weeks before—"

"These things aren't always predictable, you know," she shot back, ire pooling within her at a rapid rate. "It's not as if a woman's schedule is set in stone."

His shoulders fell noticeably.

"Yes. I do know that." She cringed at the impact of her words.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright, Mary." But she knew that it wasn't.

He tried to smile, but his eyes were heavy, weighted down by a wound she had dealt.

"No. That was unfair of me."

His measured pause was painful.

"It's alright."

They stared in silence, bleeding openly, each needing something intangible just out of the other's grasp. She had to distance herself from him, to give herself a modicum of sanity. And she knew then quite suddenly what must be done.

"Perhaps you should go. We seem to be doing nothing but hurting each other at the moment."

The words left her numbly, her eyes staring into nothing as she gave them voice.

"Look, Mary, I—"

"No. Really, Charles. You're right. Some time and distance just might be the answer. It may be our only answer, actually." Hands bound themselves to mask their trembling. "We obviously have hit a wall of some sort, and continually beating our heads against it is doing neither of us any good." She swallowed back a tear, wrapping herself protectively in the deception of her own words.

"Only if you know it's temporary, and that I shall be back." His voice bore a trace of desperation.

She finally faced him again, her mask revealing nothing as she nodded in response.

"I know you will."

It was all she could offer. To give him more would leave her exposed. He was before her then, claiming her shoulders, demanding her eyes, pleading for understanding in the hushed reverence of simple words.

"I do love you, Mary. Don't forget that, please."

God, this man.

How had she given him such power over her emotions? She couldn't contain herself, kissing him softly even though she knew the danger in such an action. He pulled her against his chest, deepening the kiss as they clasped each other with desperate hands and fractured spirits. Her body shook when they parted, his face drained of all its color. How utterly hopeless it all now seemed.

"Good-bye, Mary."

She shut her eyes.

"Good-bye, Charles."

He turned to leave, somehow knowing it had to be done, despising each step his legs bore him away from her.

"Would you stay?" Her blurted question surprised herself as much as it did him, both freezing as words from her past spilled from her lips. "If I asked you to?"

His response was no more than a whisper.

"Are you asking me to stay, Mary?"

Her heart thudded relentlessly as her knees trembled.

"No." She felt a piece of herself wither.

How she watched him leave without crying out, she was uncertain, wiping a lone tear only when he was lost to her vision. She sat without thinking, her body numb, her mind heavy with self-reproach. To doubt her actions now was useless, she knew, but doubts lingered all the same. She considered going after him, asking him to reconsider. But why should he listen when she had so coldly ushered him from her life? She shook her head at her own folly, despising herself for lying to him twice. For no matter what she had claimed, she did not think that his leaving was a good idea.

And her courses had not yet started.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The repercussions of hasty decisions don't sit well with either Charles or Mary, even as Mary becomes more certain of a repercussion that could change everything.

He sat in his quarters, staring at his hands.

Wondering. Doubting. Second-guessing everything he had said and done over the past five days. How could he have boarded this blasted ocean-liner and left her in England?

Just what kind of idiot was he?

Had she not practically begged him not to go? Of course, Lady Mary Crawley would never actually beg for anything. Yet she had asked him to stay, had looked to him to defend her right to make her own choices, to live her own life. And he had let her down. Miserably. Yes—she had conceded and finally told him to leave, only after realizing that he was unlikely to change his mind. He wondered what it had cost her to release him as she had, to stand there and act as if she supported his decision to put space between them when she was obviously angry at him for doing just that. She had her pride, a fact of which he was well-aware, and appearing weak in front of anyone was unacceptable.

Just as it would be to him.

He cursed his own stubbornness yet again. Fear and frustration had distracted him from the true issue at hand, blinding him an important opportunity missed. Where would they be now had he stood with her against her father rather than walking away? Perhaps in the midst of a scandal she did not deserve, perhaps staring down belligerent accusers. But was it possible they could be discussing the possibility of a future—one they would build together? He would never admit it to her, but he had been more than a bit disappointed when she had informed him there was no baby. Not that he would ever wish a cloud of suspicion to hover over their relationship, especially for her and George's sake. But he would be lying to himself if he refused to admit how very badly he wanted to have children with her. The thoughts of Mary holding a life they created made him ache physically, even as he understood just how much he would worry over her throughout her entire pregnancy. If something should happen to her…

No. It was better that she was not pregnant.

He couldn't stand the thoughts of losing again what had been lost before. Once had nearly broken him beyond repair. Twice, well twice was unthinkable.

He would be lost forever.

He sighed audibly into the room, feeling its emptiness. He refused to fear the future. Life's former pains would not be allowed to hold him hostage in a prison of uncertainty, not when there was such promise before him. There was no way of knowing where the road not taken would have led, and whether this was a blessing or a curse he feared would remain forever unknown. But there was one thing of which he was certain:

He would be closer to her if he had stayed than he was currently on this wretched boat.

"Charles—you bloody fool," he whispered, standing as his legs refused to remain immobile one moment longer. He moved to the porthole, gazing upon an ocean that seemed ominous despite its placid state. It now lay between them, a barrier that could not be easily traversed on either whim or impulse. How vastly different this crossing would be if she stood by his side. How he missed her. The ache was so acute that he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and into hers. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell her sent, the one that had pressed into his essence when they had clung to each other in the confines of her bed. The one that was simply her. He longed for the weight of her in his arms, the course texture of her hair pressed against his cheek, the softness of her lips dancing across his mouth.

He wanted her. He missed George. And he could only pray that things could be made right when he returned.

No. Prayer was good and necessary, but this was a time for action. After all, he had never been one to sit idly by and allow life to simply unfurl before him. And he would be damned before he left the fate of this relationship to be molded by the unskilled hands of chance. What was it she had she told him that night in the sitting room? That she had never been properly courted? That was a situation he most certainly could and would rectify. Surely there were ways to pursue a woman even an ocean could not hinder. Perhaps it was simply a matter of shifting one's perspective just enough to see the possibilities rather than the obstacles. What was a challenge if not a means to test one's determination and endurance?

If life had taught him one difficult lesson, it was that things of value were worth a fight. And Mary Crawley was most decidedly a woman worth having.

There was no real choice before him. If he wanted her in his life, he would have to work to earn back that privilege. The faintest of smiles finally edged across his lips as a plan of action began to take shape, one he began to anticipate with the eagerness of a man on a mission. It just might work—it had to work. He began to count down the hours before he would be able to disembark, eager for the feel of dry ground under his feet, even more eager for the opportunity to make things right. He would never give up on Mary Crawley, his resolution to assure her of the strength of his devotion increasing by the second.

For there was no way in hell before he would allow his final parting with Mary to define their relationship.

* * *

 

He had left two days ago. And she had felt nothing but regret.

How she had let him go without a word still puzzled her. She of all people knew better. How much time had she wasted with Matthew for reasons no sturdier than a castle of sand? That folly had cost them months, years wasted in self-sacrificial pretending rather than facing the blatant truth. Time that could have been spent in conversation, in bed, in the nursery playing with children who would now never know life. Such things could never be reclaimed, phantom years passed over as time marched relentlessly forward. Her life with Matthew had reached its end, and the only recourse left to her was to treasure the son they had created in the time they had been granted.

Just how much time was she now willing to waste with Charles Blake?

That was the question currently before her, an element of her life over which she still did possess a modicum of control. It was too much to consider at times, but as days wore on it continued to press upon her. Within two weeks, the man had managed to make his presence well-known indeed, leaving imprints that refused to fade even in his absence. There was no use in trying to work out how it had happened. The fact was that it had. That her feelings were stronger than she would care to admit was no longer up for debate. She was coming to accept her attachment to Charles Blake, to understand that she was happier with him in her life than without him. She couldn't help but smile, remembering when he had said such words to her in the small library, right before he had kissed her for the first time.

How gently she had been held, as if she were a skittish fawn that could bolt without warning. And hadn't she been just that? Terrified of letting go—of allowing herself to feel what in many ways still seemed forbidden? But he had coaxed her with tenderness, lured her with transparency, covered her with arms that shielded.

And she had told him to leave.

What had possessed her to do such a thing? Fear. Pride. And a stubborn streak she had often wished she could lay aside. These life-companions had proven themselves rather detrimental more times then she cared to number. Had they now cost her Charles Blake? She hoped not. She missed him. Terribly. If only risk was not a necessary companion to love.

Days passed mundanely until it had now been two weeks since they had parted on terms she wished had been better. How odd that now their time apart nearly equaled the time they had spent in each other's company. She had wondered if her attachment would lessen as time wore on, but it had only grown.

As had her suspicions that she might well get caught in a lie.

"Lady Mary," Carson interrupted, drawing her focus from the lawn to the paper in his hand. She turned to face him quickly, pressing down panic, fighting back prickly nerves. Was it a message from Charles? Or had something unthinkable happened? Her chest tightened painfully. "I have a telegram for you," the butler added, watching her closely. "From America."

Her eyes widened in relief.

"Thank you, Carson," she stated with as much calm as she could muster, unable to stop the sudden tremor in her hand as she took the message. He bowed, his gaze never faltering as she made her way to the window. "Is there something else?" she inquired, turning back to face him.

"No, my lady," he began, dipping his head. "I simply wondered if Mr. Blake enjoyed a safe and uneventful journey."

She swallowed purposefully, raising her brows.

"You're assuming this is from Mr. Blake."

"Yes," the butler admitted, looking at her with an intensity she had come to expect. "And hoping, as well. For your sake, my lady."

He knew her all too well. He always had.

She opened the telegram hastily, turning back to the window to read it.

 

**_Have arrived in New York_ STOP  _Will take train to Kentucky tomorrow_ STOP _I was wrong to leave_ STOP  _Please forgive me_ STOP **

**_With love, Charles_ **

 

_I was wrong to leave. Please forgive me._

The sentences played over and over again in her mind, her pulse pounding erratically as their meaning sank in. He wished he had stayed, regretted his decision to leave. Had he been thinking of her as much as she had of him? Something warm swelled inside her chest.

"Is everything alright, my lady?" Carson's inquiry caught her off guard, alerting her once again to her surroundings.

"Yes, Carson," she returned, as smoothly as she was capable. "Mr. Blake has arrived in New York without incident."

The need to elaborate was unnecessary.

"Very good, my lady. I am glad to hear it." He turned to leave her, his step quiet for a man of his stature.

"Carson," she called out, beckoning him back to her.

"Yes, my lady." Mary crossed the space between them, the telegram clasped firmly in her hands.

"Do you think I did the wrong thing?" she breathed in hesitation. "In sending him away, I mean?"

Her heart beat unsteadily as the butler stared down at her in contemplation.

"You miss Mr. Blake, I take it?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

"Yes. More than I probably should."

His brows moved into his forehead.

"And why would you think such a thing, my lady?"

Her gaze sharpened.

"You know why, Carson."

Eyes fastened on to each other as she swallowed down an inexplicable urge to hide under the table. He nodded thoughtfully, leaning forward a bit as he drew a deep breath.

"Do your feelings for Mr. Blake in any way diminish what you felt for Mr. Crawley?"

Her eyes rounded.

"Of course not. Nothing could ever diminish what we had." Carson smiled down at her.

"That's precisely what I thought."

Dear God. It was so simple.

Her heart beat steadily faster as her ribs seemed to expand.

"And there's nothing wrong…with caring for someone else so soon?"

The butler's lips rose in a small smile, and Mary suddenly longed to be able to curl up in his lap as she had when she was a little girl.

"If I may, my lady, you have a great capacity to love, even though you don't always know how to express it." Carson cleared his throat, gauging her reaction. "If you have been granted an opportunity to share that love with someone else, I would take it as a blessing, not as something with which to concern yourself." He paused, taking one step closer. "Feelings don't necessarily follow time-tables. Nor should they."

Had she not tried to convince herself of that very thing before he left?

"Do you really believe that, Carson?" She held her breath, quietly awaiting affirmation.

"I do, my lady. And I also believe that Mr. Blake is a very lucky man."

She stood immobile, her insides alight. There was so much to take in, so much to resolve.

"Thank you, Carson. You always know exactly what to say." She captured his hand, looking with glistening eyes to this man she trusted like no other.

"And I hope I always will, my lady."

He left her then, exiting the room as quietly as he had entered. She returned her gaze to the window, looking out upon trees cloaked in the glories of high autumn. So much beauty—so much to take in, the hues of nature painting the earth in vibrant, living shades. How could she have been so blind to what stood before her in utmost clarity? She wished he were her with her now, sharing the view, sharing this space. But within the peace of knowing he missed her grew a new concern, one that could not be long ignored.

Her eyes were then drawn to a flock of geese making their way across the sky. She could not help but envy them their ability to take flight, wishing she could join their numbers. If she but possessed the ability to span the sea, perhaps apologies could be offered in person before impending damage became irrevocable.

"Forgive me, Charles," she breathed, her plea leaving its mark on the cool pane as her hand descended to softly cradle her abdomen.

* * *

 

"Would you like to come to town with me, Mary?" Her mother's voice interrupted her progression up the steps. "I have a few errands to run, and then I thought I might stop by to see all of the repairs at Crawley House. Isobel says that there have actually been several improvements made."

Isobel. The one person she could not bring herself to face at the moment.

"I'm afraid I've already made plans," Mary returned, a bit relieved in having an excuse to avoid Mrs. Crawley yet again. "I am going to visit Anna a bit later."

Cora smiled, nodding her approval.

"That's nice. How is little Marianne getting along?"

"Very well, so I'm told. I haven't seen her in several days."

The appalling truth was that she had not seen the child since she had been born. Bates had informed her of Anna's choice of name, and she had been both honored and humbled. She had made plans to visit, had even started walking in that general direction. But the night of the little girl's birth had shaken her, opening wounds that had instigated a decision whose repercussions were just beginning to be felt. It was time to overcome her hesitation, however.

This fear had to be faced.

The day was perfect, the sun clear, the air crisp. Leaves crunched under her feet as she made her way down the path to the Bates' residence. Her arrival at the cottage came quicker than expected, and she paused to stare at it, remembering the last time she had been outside these walls.

They had fled from this house in a haste born out of panic and pain, crafting an escape that had carried them directly to Downton, and eventually into her bed. They had wept openly into each other, kissing away past injuries, touching wounds hidden from most. She shivered remembering the sensation of warm hands skimming her thighs, soft lips caressing her skin. How wrapped up she had felt in his arms, how treasured while joined with his body. She had been a physical part of this man so alive, so present, and so in love with her.

_I was wrong to leave._

"Dear God, Charles," she voiced, the breeze carrying her words away the moment they left her lips.

The door then opened, the smiling face of Anna Bates peering out just the balm she needed.

"My lady. What a nice surprise."

"I know I should have checked with you beforehand," Mary offered, slightly embarrassed at her own lapse in etiquette. "But I hoped that you wouldn't mind too badly if I showed up unexpectedly."

"Mind?" Anna returned, with a grin. "Why would I mind? I am delighted to have the company. With Mr. Bates away most of the day at the big house, sometimes Marianne and I do get a bit lonely."

Guilt seized her, the fact that she had been neglecting her friend out of her own weakness nagging uncomfortably.

"I'm so sorry, Anna. I should have come sooner."

"No matter," Mrs. Bates grinned. "You're here now. Please come in."

Mary entered, delighted at the feel of normalcy she experienced. Gone was the stifling grip of grief and lost chances, their reign overshadowed by the sight of new mother gently lifting her baby from the crib.

"My, she's grown already," Mary exclaimed, stroking the girl's plump cheeks.

"She quite a good eater, I can tell you that," Anna returned, motioning for Mary to sit.

"Would you like to hold her, my lady?"

The offer hovered between them, memories halting her reply.

"Yes. I would like to very much."

The infant's warmth settled gently in her arms, the weight of her fitting snuggly against her chest. Mary stroked sparse patches of golden hair, so different from George's full head of darker locks.

"She's beautiful, Anna." Mrs. Bates, dropped her gaze appreciatively.

"We think so."

Her heart fluttered, stirrings of so much strumming cords both new and familiar.

"And how are you feeling? You look very well."

"I feel well, indeed, my lady," Anna answered. "I just wish I could get a bit more sleep. Marianne does keep rather odd hours." Mary smiled and nodded.

"Babies do have that tendency, don't they?"

The child yawned, and Mary smiled down at her, marveling at the perfect pinkness of her lips and nose.

"Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, and much, much more," Anna returned, the contentment on her face beautiful to behold. "I've never seen Mr. Bates so happy. It's as if he's suddenly become ten years younger."

"Just how fathers should be," Mary stated, fighting back a stab of sadness. She then swallowed down her misgivings, gaining courage from the child in her arms. "Matthew was so taken with George. I'll never forget the expression on his face when he held him the first time."

The only time. A fact of which both women were well aware.

"He loved both of you so much," Anna ventured. "You made him very happy."

She looked to Anna, a genuine smile breaking across her face.

"I know." She felt a warmth without a void, an ache of remembrance rather than a throbbing loss. "Just as I loved him."

Marianne stretched, reaching tiny fingers towards Mary's face. She raised the infant slightly, allowing the child's hand to stroke her chin. The miracle of life struck her in a manner that had been lost to her since Matthew died. Her breasts stirred in reaction.

"I never got to thank you properly for the honor you have given me," Mary stated, giving the baby an exaggerated smile. "Naming her Marianne." Anna grinned back.

"It seemed appropriate after all we have seen each other through, my lady. And I am very grateful for how much help you gave me during her birth."

Mary was stunned.

"I didn't do all that much, Anna, believe me. Isobel and Nurse Jennings had matters well in hand."

"I know that," Anna returned, dropping her eyes briefly. "But it was the fact that you were here, that you were willing to put yourself through something that could not have been easy for my sake that meant so much to me."

The woman gazed at each other in understanding.

"I had to be here, Anna. There was no question." No question at all.

"And how are you bearing up, my lady? I understand things haven't exactly been easy for you as of late."

She dropped her eyes, fully aware that Anna would have been apprised of all that had transpired in her absence.

"I am doing as well as can be expected, I suppose," Mary returned, attempting a smile in return. "But no. It has not been easy."

"I'm so sorry all of that happened, my lady," Anna put in, the softness of her tone carrying easily across the room. "You should have never been subjected to such behavior."

"I wish it hadn't, but there's no changing what has been done, is there?" She continued to wonder just how the Roqueforts had known of their indiscretion.

"Still, to treat you with such disrespect while they were guests in your home," Anna continued. "It just isn't right."

She fought down the dark loathing that stirred deep within, despising Edward Roquefort with a ferocity that startled her. Such thoughts had no place here. Not with Anna. Not with this child.

"No. I agree." They were silent a moment, the baby's soft gurgles filling in the silence.

"Have you heard from Mr. Blake?"

Anna's inquiry had been quiet, her eyes searching as Mary paused.

"Yes. I just received a telegram yesterday. He is in America and probably on his way to the horse farm by now." Anna nodded.

"And how long is he expected to be gone?" Mary drew a quiet breath.

"Probably another five weeks."

Five weeks. How dreadfully long such a time suddenly seemed.

"So he should be back in time for Christmas, then," Anna put in cheerily, voicing a thought that had completely escaped her.

"Yes," Mary agreed, her eyes brightening a bit. "Yes, I suppose he will."

She smiled, thinking just how nice it would be for George if Charles were there for the Holidays. Not to mention how nice it would be for her. The baby stirred, drawing her attention in more ways than one.

"You miss him, don't you?"

Mary didn't look up.

"I do. Very much." She hesitated, staring at Marianne, extending a finger and welcoming the child's eager grasp. Her heart stalled in her throat, her breath suddenly shallow. "I think I may be pregnant, Anna."

She dared a look up when there was no response.

"What?"

"I think I'm pregnant."

Saying it the second time had been no easier. Anna stood, moving closer and taking the stool directly across from Mary.

"Mr. Blake?" Mary's direct gaze left no room for doubt. "Just how certain are you?"

Her legs began to fidget.

"Not very, just yet," Mary began, feeling suddenly restless. "But I am nearly a week late for my monthly courses." Her face burned at the admission. Anna nodded quietly.

"That's happened before, you know," Mrs. Bates put in. "They simply arrived a bit later than expected, but then everything returned to normal."

Mary sighed softly.

"Yes, I remember."

She stared down at the baby whose crystal eyes were fluttering shut.

"Do you have any other signs or symptoms?"

She met Anna's eyes head-on.

"A few. I haven't been terribly ill, but there are certain smells that have begun to bother me recently." Anna's eyes rounded slightly.

"Like the sausages, you mean?"

Mary sighed ruefully, seeing the understanding in the other woman's eyes.

"Exactly like the sausages."

The mere scent of that particular meat cooking had made her quite nauseous on several occasions when she had been expecting George. Anna had taken to opening her window and shutting her bedroom door whenever Mrs. Patmore had them on the menu.

"Only it was lamb last night," Mary added, one toe tapping nervously. "And salmon the day before."

"I see," Anna whispered, her stare somewhat vacant. "Are you more tired than usual?"

"Exhausted," Mary confessed, the certainty of her circumstances seeming only to increase as they conversed. "No matter how much sleep I get the night before, I find myself in need of a nap after lunch."

The color had now drained from Anna's face. And Mary was now nearly sure. Only hours after the child in her arms had drawn first breath, yet another baby had been formed in secret.

"I take it Mr. Blake doesn't know," Mrs. Bates stated, her brow creasing. "Surely he wouldn't have left you for America had he…"

"No. He would not have gone," Mary interrupted, her face heating slightly. "I told him he had nothing to worry about, you see."

"What?" Anna looked truly horrified.

"He refused to leave England if there was even the slightest possibility that I could be pregnant, yet he seemed intent on going to America, otherwise." Mary paused, shaking her head at her own faulty logic.

"So you told him that you weren't expecting?" Anna deduced, eyeing her warily.

"Basically," Mary admitted, wondering just what his response to her would be. "I told him that a woman's schedule was not set in stone and that mine—" Here she paused, choking on her own confession. "Well, I told him that there was no baby." Guilt pressed in from all sides.

"I don't think he'll be too pleased about being deceived, my lady," Anna said, the concern evident on her face.

"He won't be. I'm certain."

Dear God, what had she done? Anna's expression softened then, and she leaned in closer.

"I don't suppose there is any way to get word to him in America, is there?" Mary's shoulders dropped.

"Even if there were, I'm not yet certain that I am carrying his child. And once enough time has passed for me to know, he'll have returned." At least she hoped that would be the case.

"Mr. Blake seems to be an honorable man, and I would think that he would do the right thing by you." Anna's sincerity touched her.

"I have no doubt that he will," Mary returned, her voice dropping. "He actually proposed before he left." Swallowing was suddenly difficult as the wall of her throat thickened.

"He did?" Anna asked hopefully. "And what did you say?"

Mary braced herself.

"I turned him down." A heavy sigh escaped the other woman.

"You have managed to complicate matters rather nicely for yourself, haven't you?"

An actual laugh broke through, Mary couldn't stop it, making its way through her chest, encouraging her to hold the infant closer as Anna grinned in response.

"Truer words were never spoken, Anna."

All hilarity vanished as quickly as it had arrived, and she looked again to the child, planting a soft kiss on her forehead before returning her attention to the girl's mother.

"She truly is beautiful."

Mary couldn't help but envision Charles holding a daughter, nestling the child he so wanted yet had been cruelly denied. What had she been thinking in sending him away?

"Is there anything I can do to help you, my lady?"

Mary gave her a small smile, shaking her head.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to be done at this point, Anna. Rather than waiting, that is."

Waiting for her body to let her know for certain. Waiting for Charles to return from America. Waiting for his reaction to the fact that she had lied to him—about a child.

_Their_ child.

Her stomach clenched again at the realization of just what a mess she had created. No-he would not be happy with her, not at all. And why should he be when she was so disappointed in herself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: As a born and bred Kentuckian, I felt it necessary to share some local history as it fits into this narrative as well as to share some of my personal inspiration in writing it.
> 
> The farm that Charles is on his way to visit is Hamburg Place in Lexington, Ky. It was owned by the legendary John Madden, and was the premiere horse farm in the region until 1929. Charles would have interacted with Madden directly on this journey, and today the Madden family hosts the most spectacular Derby Parties in the state. Today if you visit Hamburg Place, you will find a rather large and busy shopping center about 15 minutes from my house. All of the streets in the vicinity are named after horses from the farm, including Sir Barton Way-the main thoroughfare named in honor of the farm's first Triple Crown Winner.
> 
> On a personal note, for those of you who are reading and leaving Kudos--thank you so very much. I wrote this story years ago and posted it on ff.net as I progressed. I am currently in the process of moving all of my work over to this incredible site, and picking up new readers for what is still my favorite story I've ever written makes my heart soar! Thank you for reading and taking a chance on my own version of DA Season 4. 
> 
> Blessings,  
> Laura


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary has lunch and a rather serious conversation with Lady Catherine.

**_Trains and handkerchiefs_ STOP  _George and his bear_   STOP _Tea at your grandmother's_ STOP  _Travels in the rain_ STOP **

**_Missing you terribly if you cannot tell_ STOP  _Kentucky would be lovelier with you_ STOP**

**_All my love,_ **

**_Charles_ **

 

_Missing you terribly if you cannot tell._

She had lost count of how many times she had read it, gently placing it back into the drawer from which it had been retrieved just minutes ago. She then stoked a photograph still cherished, chills coursing up her arm as the sensation of missing two men descended upon her like a weight. Her body was no longer her own. Yet she felt terribly alone.

A wave of nausea gripped her, and she swallowed forcefully, trying to fight back what had been threatening her ever since she opened her eyes. Her stomach had been uneasy upon awakening for the past several days, but this morning was dealing her a rather harsh dosage of reality. Her courses were now three weeks late, her breasts tender and her bladder irregular. She no longer harbored any doubts.

A visit to Dr. Clarkson had been put off, avoiding that moment as long as she was able, even though she trusted he would not give away her secret. It was imperative that no one besides Anna know the truth before he returned. She had treated him unfairly enough by sending him off with false assurances while he continued to send her messages of love from across the Atlantic. A dull throb began to pulse in her temples.

She must inform Charles before anyone else found out.

Not that it would make him despise her any less, she reasoned. How long would it take a man who had lost so much to forgive a woman who had deceived him about a child? There were too many possible answers to even consider. And why had she done such a thing in the first place? Because they had argued? Because she allowed her own feelings of betrayal to overrun her sense of reason? She knew he would toss his heart and soul into their relationship for their baby's sake if nothing more. Charles Blake was simply that type of man. A protector, a defender, a man who would remain loyal to her as the mother of his child in spite of the hurt she had dealt him. But the look of betrayal she could envision in eyes that had caressed her so tenderly pierced her in places few could reach.

She held back the urge to be sick once again. Three more weeks. Her body would not give her away before then, surely.

She had been nearly four months along before any physical evidence became visible when she was carrying George, and even then it could be concealed by arranging her clothes in a certain manner. Of course, there was Campbell to consider. As if on cue, her lady's maid entered, stepping back slightly in surprise at seeing her out of bed already. She looked from her own reflection to that of Ruth, the other woman's appearance only highlighting the grayish pallor of her own complexion.

"Is everything alright, my lady?" Campbell questioned, the measured hesitance in her tone carrying across the room.

"Not really," Mary answered, rubbing her forehead as it began to throb. "But I have been worse."

The maid dared three steps in her direction, watching her in evident concern.

"What can I do for you?" she questioned, halting just behind Mary's shoulder. She drew a breath, knowing that concealing such intimate details from this woman would be next to impossible. Few things escaped the notice of an observant lady's maid, and Campbell was quite intelligent. Perhaps it would be better to deal with the matter head-on rather than skirting around it.

"Nothing, really," Mary answered, smoothing lotion into her arms. "Other than removing that breakfast tray from the room before I become ill."

Campbell stared down at the tray in her grasp, the quick darting of her eyes between its surface and her lady alerting Mary to the fact that suspicions were indeed stirring. She moved quickly, setting the offending cuisine outside the door before shutting it and returning to the vanity.

"Would you prefer something else to eat, my lady?" Her discomfort in asking such a question pushed its way through her legs, the younger woman rocking back and forth on her heels ever so slightly.

"Not at the moment," Mary replied, turning her body in Campbell's direction. "But some tea and toast might be nice a bit later."

Campbell nodded, the conflict upon her face so easy to read.

"You know, don't you."

It was a statement, not a question, and one that made the maid's cheeks flame instantly.

"What do you mean, my lady?" Her eyes were glued to the floor's surface, her hands fidgeting nervously under Mary's knowing gaze.

"I mean that you are my lady's maid, Campbell," she stated, her voice carrying an evenness she did not feel. "I would be surprised if you hadn't noticed certain irregularities as of late."

Campbell drew in her lips, returning her gaze to that of her employer.

"I have noticed certain…certain things, my lady," she managed, pausing to draw a calming breath. "But I didn't want to make any assumptions." Mary gave her a small smile.

"And I appreciate you for it. But your assumptions are probably correct."

Campbell's face remained immobile. The she took another step towards her employer.

"Have you seen a doctor yet, my lady?" Mary's face dropped slightly, her hands beginning to fidget.

"No. Not yet." Her chest tightened slightly.

"But don't you think it would be wise to do so?" Campbell reasoned, pieces of a puzzle fitting together in her mind. "Just to make sure?"

Her legs pushed her up slowly, the movement unsettling her stomach somewhat. Campbell moved to her quickly, taking her arm steadily to keep her upright.

"Believe me, Campbell. I am sure."

She felt suddenly light-headed, grabbing the maid's arm as a swell of dizziness threatened to buckle her knees. Lights flashed behind her eyes, the sensation of falling stilling her heart.

"You should go back to bed, my lady. Get some rest," Campbell asserted, guiding her towards awaiting sheets with a gentle haste. Steady hands helped her settle, the soft surface of her bed more than alluring.

"I won't argue with you over that," Mary agreed, settling heavily back onto her mattress, her limbs melding into its comfort. "Perhaps a glass of water would be helpful."

Campbell nodded, pausing in her set course towards the bedroom door.

"Are you certain you won't allow me to contact the doctor, my lady? I should hate for anything to happen."

Mary looked at her directly, breathing steadily to settle both her stomach and her nerves.

"I'm afraid this is all simply a part of it, Campbell," she stated, her hand settling where his child now grew. "I shall simply have to ride it out, as all women have for centuries."

The two of them remained immobile, a new level of trust hinging upon the happenings of the next few moments.

"Does anyone else know?"

Mary smiled softly, her gaze floating to the window before returning to the woman before her.

"Only Anna." Campbell nodded quietly. Mary detected no look of censure upon her face. "I cannot allow anyone else to find out until I have the opportunity to inform Mr. Blake. It is only right that he be told before the news becomes widespread."

No show of surprise met her statement, the fact that the entire staff knew of the accusations hurled at Charles and her validated without a whisper.

"I won't say a word to anyone, my lady. You have my word."

The core of her chest filled with warmth, this gesture of kindness offering a measure of much needed peace.

"Thank you, Campbell. I appreciate that. More than you know."

The younger woman tilted her head slightly, pressing her lips together before speaking again.

"Is there a certain time you would like me to return, my lady? To help you dress, I mean."

"Give me an hour to rest," Mary returned, stroking her forehead in an attempt to alleviate the pressure in her head. "Then I must get dressed. I don't want to arouse any more suspicions. Besides, Lady Catherine has invited me to Rufforth Hall for luncheon this afternoon. I cannot disappoint her, now can I?"

"No," Campbell returned, a grin of approval breaking across her face. "One would never wish to disappoint Headmistress Blake."

Mary smiled back at her, her brow creasing as she began to move her body further into the pillows.

"You must make it a point to visit her sometime, Campbell. I know it would mean the world to her."

"I would like that very much indeed," the maid replied, the pleasure such a suggestion gave her unmistakable. "She is very dear to me."

"As you are to her," Mary stated, her body already appreciating the ease of lying down. "Thank you again, Campbell. For everything."

"I shall have that tea and toast for you when I return," she responded, a lingering concern still evident in her expression. "Just ring if you need anything sooner." With that reassurance, she took her leave.

Mary's eyes closed mere seconds after the door clicked, her body pulling her towards the edge of an oblivion she both sought and welcomed. Muscles came undone, tendons and ligaments softening as the exhaustion of early pregnancy took its toll. So many images flitted across her thoughts, brushing broad strokes upon the canvas of a semi-conscious mind. Whisperings, murmurs, overlapping conversations she could not quite understand called to her, as lines blurred between lives present and past. She saw Matthew, George, Charles, Sybil… There, in her arms, in a world just beyond her grasp, a hazy image of a child she did not yet know snuggled trustingly against her breast. She reached out for him, needing to touch this wonder a part of her yet still so new. But she could not quite reach the baby, no matter how hard she strained to do so.

And then she knew no more.

* * *

 

How odd it felt to be back at Rufforth Hall after all that had transpired, without his presence at her side, and with his child inside of her. She stared up at the estate, taking it in with eyes that knew so much more than they had but weeks ago. They had reluctantly left this peace of this estate and traveled into a night they never expected, one that had led directly to the situation in which they now found themselves.

A situation she prayed could be resolved with at least a certain level of amiability.

She could not help but wonder how much Charles's aunt knew of what had happened between them, having learned in rather short order not to underestimate the woman's power of deduction or attention to detail. If Charles had spoken of the fiasco the last night of the house party with anyone, it would have been with the woman who raised him. Yet Mary felt certain that he would volunteer as little information about that evening as possible, as protective of her as he had become. But servants spoke, word traveled, and her own grandmother was dear friends with Catherine Blake. It was most decidedly the smarter course of action to assume she knew everything.

Ajit met her at the front entrance, his smile and welcome as natural as if she had been there but yesterday. She followed him inside, attempting to push aside stirrings of discomfort at being here without Charles by her side. Yet the rationale that she had come to visit with his aunt and to ensure her well-being fell flat as she took in surroundings he had been so eager to share with her. She felt both at home and a stranger. Mary swallowed back any second-thoughts remaining as she was escorted into the sitting room where Lady Catherine awaited her. There was but a moment of silence as the women were left alone, looking at each other under circumstances quite different from when they had last met.

"My dear, I am so very glad you came."

The older woman's smile of welcome was genuine, and it squeezed Mary's chest unexpectedly, putting to rest any doubts of the wisdom of her visit. She moved quickly towards her, accepting the offered embrace with a burst of warmth.

"Thank you for the invitation," Mary returned, smiling back at her in return. "I was both pleased and surprised to receive it."

"Oh, you shouldn't be surprised, my dear," Lady Catherine retorted. "You know how much I enjoy your company. I only wish I had been able to invite you to dine sooner."

Mary's heart stilled in her chest as a nagging fear took root.

"Have you been ill again?" she inquired quickly, taking in her companion's appearance. "You must tell me if you have."

"Oh, no. Just a bit more tired than usual," Lady Catherine explained with a squeeze of her hand. "But nothing you need worry yourself over."

"I'm not certain I believe you," Mary mused, her brow rising. "You are rather adept at downplaying your health concerns when it suits your purposes."

"Am I?" she inquired with a wink. "You would never accuse me of stretching the truth, now would you?"

"Perish the thought," Mary returned. "But I have no qualms in making the observation that your nephew most certainly learned his method of turning all matters towards his favor from you." Lady Catherine's eyes beamed with mischief.

"An observation I shall accept, Lady Mary. Now, shall we go and enjoy our luncheon?"

She could not help but admire the woman's spirit and decided to allow the line of questioning to be dropped for the time being.

"That sounds lovely."

The moved to the dining room, Mary guiding the older woman to the table where lunch was awaiting them. The space was less grand than Downton's large room, yet it offered a level of intimacy Mary appreciated as much at this moment as she had during her first visit. She could not help but wonder if she would call this place home very soon indeed. An odd stirring made its way through her limbs as she understood just how likely such an outcome now was.

"I have asked Ishana to prepare one of my favorite dishes for you," Lady Catherine began, cutting into her musings. "I do hope you will not object to a mild curry?"

Her eyes rounded in spite of herself, her stomach unsure of how to respond to such an unknown flavor.

"I hardly know as I have never tried it," she answered, attempting to pacify her body as it began to brace itself for the possibility of an unpleasant confrontation.

"If you object, it's quite alright. Ishana always manages to have dishes fit for the English palate whenever she prepares something from her homeland."

Mary swallowed a bit easier, praying her tender appetite would not give her away. As they spoke, the Indian woman entered, bearing with her two bowls of a potato leek soup with which Mary could find no fault. The mild flavor actually settled her insides somewhat, and she began to eat it with relish, her body alerting her to the fact that she had taken in very little up until this moment.

"I do hope you approve so far," Lady Catherine inquired, watching Mary a bit too close for her own comfort.

"Very much. The soup was delicious." A smile met her assertion, her nose alerting her that the dish in question was making its entrance. The smell was not unpleasant, but neither was it soothing, and she was thankful for the serving of rice offered before the curry was placed before her.

At that moment, she feared she was doomed.

She took several bites of the rice, absorbing its gratifying blandness as she avoided the dish covered in a yellow sauce so foreign. She began to wonder if the discovery of her condition was more eminent than she had foreseen.

"Are you afraid to try it?" her hostess inquired, noting her reluctance.

"It would seem that I am," Mary conceded, hoping to sound unfazed. "I'm not quite certain I am up to the task today."

"I do hope you are not ill," Lady Catherine asserted with a note of concern.

"Not at all," Mary returned steadily. "I just felt a bit off this morning, but I am now quite recovered."

A flash of something pierced the older woman's eyes, gone in a mere breath as a beguiling grin overtook her features. But Mary had noted it. And she now suspected the full extent of Catherine Blake's knowledge.

"Perhaps you would prefer another bowl of soup, my dear? That seemed to agree with you very well."

Gratitude and alarm gripped her in equal measure, her head nodding of its own accord.

"Yes. That would be very nice, indeed."

Another bowl was set before her, the plate of curry taken away. Mary forced her shoulders not to slump in relief, sipping her water in a calming gesture.

"May I speak frankly with you, Lady Mary?"

Her spoon stilled on its path to her mouth.

"Of course, Lady Catherine. What is it you wish to say?"

They studied each other across the table, nerves and admiration apparent in both. Lady Catherine then cleared her throat, her features soft, yet her gaze direct.

"I am aware that you and my nephew did not part on the best of terms." Mary set her spoon down on the table.

"No. We did not, unfortunately."

The older woman drew a deep breath, her brows creasing slightly.

"I assume this is due to the rather horrid scene to which you were subjected several weeks ago." Mary's pulse sped slightly, her palate suddenly parched.

"Yes. Mostly, that is." She heard a fork touch down, her eyes continuing to stare into her soup.

"I am very sorry to hear it, my dear. I know that Charles loves you very much."

Her chin trembled slightly as her heart suddenly ached.

"He has become most dear to me. I miss him terribly." Her voice was so low her companion had to lean forward to hear her declaration.

"Have you heard from him since he left?"

Mary's eyes sought hers at this inquiry, nodding softly to the older woman across from her.

"Yes. I have received two telegrams."

Lady Catherine's smile returned as she folded her hands and placed them in her lap.

"I am glad for that, at least. I was very displeased with him for leaving as he did."

Mary's brows drew together in confusion.

"You were unhappy with his decision to go to America?"

Lady Catherine's eyes widened resolutely.

"I most certainly was, and I told him so. He was being so irrational, and I begged him not to act in a manner he would most assuredly regret." She shook her head, chuckling to herself. "Men can become so fixated upon a certain course of action that they fail to see all of the other options before them. Yet we women can stare at those same options until they become blurry and still have a difficult time choosing the right course."

Mary smiled softly in acknowledgement, her soup now all but forgotten.

"I wasn't exactly acting in a reasonable manner, either, I'm afraid. He is not solely to blame for our current situation."

Lady Catherine nodded carefully.

"It usually takes two to create something so complex," the older woman contended. "One can rarely manage such a feat alone."

Mary's face began to warm.

"I suppose that's true," she conceded, her fingers toying with her napkin. "I hadn't really thought about it in such a way." Her hand fought seeking its new resting place as she forced herself to hold Catherine Blake's gaze.

"And neither would he," Charles's aunt added. "I fear both of you have a rather nasty habit of attempting to shoulder more blame than you deserve to carry."

Mary eyed her directly.

"I daresay you've been speaking with Granny." She received a smile in return.

"We speak with each other a great deal, my dear. She is also concerned about how things were left between you and Charles."

Mary sighed audibly, considering the conversations in which the two women could have engaged. She had not discussed her situation with her grandmother in any great detail, although she was certain Violet Crawley would have plenty to say about the matter if granted the opportunity.

"I received a telegram from him today, actually," Lady Catherine added, capturing Mary's undivided attention. "It seems he has taken care of the business he had in Kentucky and is rather anxious to get back to England."

Her heart raced at this information and all it implied, eyes blinking repeatedly in response.

"So he is returning earlier than he had originally planned?" The woman smiled gently in her direction.

"Yes, my dear. He now hopes to be home in two weeks rather than three."

Her mind and pulse began to chase each other, this news so welcome yet terrifying coursing its way through her veins.

"I'm glad to hear it," she managed steadily. "But I wonder why he didn't say as much to me? Did he not want me to know for some reason?"

The very thought of such sickened her.

"Hardly," Lady Catherine returned, shaking her head as her eyes softened. "He fears he may be delayed, and he didn't wish to worry you if he arrived later than expected. He thought it better to surprise you than to cause you any unreasonable stress."

Everything froze around her. He understood. Her irrational fears—her sense of panic, her dread that tragedy was looming just around the corner from happiness—Charles was attempting to shelter her from herself in this most endearing way. He was cutting his trip short—for her. The ache inside intensified.

"But you thought it better to tell me in advance," Mary ventured, wondering just why Charles's aunt would go against his wishes in this matter.

"Yes, I did." Lady Catherine paused, taking on a mantle of authority as she gazed at the woman so loved by her nephew. "Sometimes surprises, no matter how well-intentioned, can cause more damage than good," she began, her eyes never losing their directness. "And after what you have already been forced to endure, I assumed that you may have had enough surprises thrown at you for quite some time."

She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath greedily.

"You assumed correctly. Thank you for your consideration."

Mary heard her slow intake of breath.

"And thank you for bringing my nephew back to life. I had come to believe that I would not live to see him truly happy again." She swallowed past the thickened confines of her throat.

"That's funny. I would attest that he was the one giving life back to me." An appreciative sound came from her companion.

"I am glad to hear it. The best of relationships are like that, I think."

The remark cut smartly, the weight of her deception suddenly just too much to bear.

"I'm afraid I may wound him deeply before we can truly find our way back to each other."

Lady Catherine's face never faltered.

"You left things unspoken between you?"

Mary's expression wavered, her fingers chilling slightly.

"Yes. And some things were spoken that should have never been said."

Lady Catherine pursed her lips tightly, a mannerism that reminded Mary so much of the man they were discussing.

"There is a baby?"

There was only the slightest hint of question in the older woman's tone, the facts before her painting a rather vivid picture. Mary's heart stilled.

"Yes. There is a baby."

A momentary pause stood between them, and she allowed her hand to now acknowledge what she had held in secret just seconds before.

"I thought as much."

Expressions remained fixed, yet everything had just altered dramatically. Before this moment, they had been friendly acquaintances. Now they were bound by the tie of blood.

"Charles has no idea, I take it," Lady Catherine ventured, the answer obvious before it was given.

"No," Mary whispered, staring back into her soup. "I lied to him, you see. I told him that there was no baby and he needn't fear leaving me for several weeks." She sighed, her hands dropping to the napkin lying across her lap. "I became angry when I thought that perhaps my being pregnant was his only reason he would stay," she admitted, her limbs suddenly restless. "It was so childish of me. You don't know how often I have wished I could take those words back. I know how much…how much having a child means to him."

Her companion's steady gaze was almost too much, and Mary had the oddest sense of just how effective a headmistress Catherine Blake had been.

"Having a child does mean a great deal to Charles," she finally spoke, choosing her words carefully. "But I am certain you mean more."

The words nearly broke her.

"And once he finds out that I lied to him? Will that not alter his perception of me?"

"Does life not constantly alter our perceptions, Lady Mary?"

The question flew at her from out of nowhere, catching her off-guard as her hands stilled in her lap.

"Yes. I suppose it does."

"Speaking out of turn in the heat of an argument is a rather common occurrence, something we all do at one time or another," Lady Catherine continued. "I'm certain there are many things which Charles wishes he could take back from your conversation, as well."

Her thoughts began to stack haphazardly atop each other forming a structure too confusing to interpret. She wished again that he was here with her, the necessary confrontation a point in history rather than a specter looming over her like an ominous fog.

"I don't think he lied about anything," she threw back, her guilt still close to the surface.

"Maybe not," Lady Catherine conceded, "But he is the one who actually boarded that ocean liner and crossed the Atlantic without you."

Her heart thudded painfully.

"Perhaps." She sat motionless, absorbing more than she could take in at the moment. "Do you really think he'll be so quick to forgive me, Lady Catherine?"

The older woman leaned forward, pausing but a moment before releasing a breath.

"I believe that he would forgive you almost anything, my dear. Especially a simple delay in informing him that he is to be a father." Mary felt her shoulders unwind, and she took another sip of water, relishing the coolness spreading down her throat. "Although I won't pretend that the road ahead for the two of you may not be a bit bumpy at first," Lady Catherine added, her forehead rising in tandem. "At least until the dust has a chance to settle."

Mary shook her head, tossing her own brows upward.

"Even so, I do hope you are right."

Blue eyes sparkled in her direction, the older woman's nose crinkling as if she possessed the most delicious secret.

"Don't worry, my dear," she grinned in measured reassurance. "I am rarely wrong."

* * *

 

"No, George. Cat is not here."

She watched her son's face scrunch into a pout for what seemed like the hundredth time since Charles had gone, the book he had given the child tossed to the floor in a fit of temper.

"Here. Let Mummy read it to you."

But the toddler had other ideas, sliding from her lap and seeking his teddy bear. He cuddled up to the animal, burying chubby cheeks into its fur in an effort to escape his nap. At the moment, she had neither the desire nor the will to fight him. She walked to the window instead, allowing her back to rest against the wall near it as she gazed upon a sky that couldn't make up its mind. Tidbits of yesterday's conversation continually danced through her thoughts, and she was tremendously thankful for Lady Catherine's support and candor.

The remainder of their afternoon had passed in ease, the freedom of honesty allowing Mary to drop her guard and simply enjoy the woman's company. Lady Catherine Blake—grandmother to her second child in every way that mattered. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if she carried a son or daughter. Would the baby have curls like George? Would he bear his father's dimples? Have skin as fair as her own? Brown eyes would seem to be likely, although there were no certainties at this early stage.

Two weeks. How odd that the subtraction of a mere seven days made the stretch of time seem so much shorter.

The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She could tell him in two weeks.

It was then that she missed George.

The bear remained on the nursery floor, but her child was not there. She quickly scanned the room, looking quickly into any nook or corner in which he could have hidden. Nothing.

"George," she voiced, attempting to keep the panic at bay as she stepped quickly from the nursery into the hall. He had just mastered the art of walking. How was it that he could get away from her with such ease? The hall stretched empty before her, neither sight nor sound of her little boy greeting her anxious senses. Her footfalls echoed in her ears, a sense of urgency building with each step that led nowhere. Where could he have gone?

"George!" Her cry was more urgent this time, the pace of her stride quickening to match that of her pulse as her eyes darted back and forth in a furious search. Had he wondered into a bedroom, found an open closet that enticed him inside? She rounded a corner, pausing as time seemed to slow.

Her son stood teetering at the top of the steps, a look of fierce determination upon his brow.

"George," she whispered, not wanting to startle him as she moved with a stealth unknown to her until this moment. She was nearly there, arms reaching out to scoop him up as he turned and grinned up at her.

And dared another step.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles returns to circumstances that are difficult for both Mary and him. 
> 
> *Trigger warning: Miscarriage

To say that George had been spoiled over the next several days would have been a gross understatement.

His every whim had been indulged, his mood-swings overlooked. After five days of incessant attention, the child began to protest being put down alone in his crib, having become accustomed to begin held and rocked until he fell into slumber. The end results of such antics were that George had become impossible, his nanny rather put out and his mother exhausted. Mary had decided. It was time that her son be put back on his schedule.

Thus it was that she now stood outside the nursery door, listening to him scream almost as loudly as he had at the hospital while having his stitches sewn. Her nerves were at the severing point, hormones and lack of sleep brewing a rather toxic concoction that resulted in nearly everyone at Downton granting her a rather wide berth. Everyone except her mother.

"Go and lie down for a bit. I can take this watch." Mary sighed in frustration, giving her mother a glare meant to intimidate.

"Only if you promise not to give in to him. He knows he can persuade you to take his part in this, Mama. You've proved to be a most invaluable ally in his display of mutiny."

Cora looked at her daughter from under hooded lids.

"He is my only grandson, Mary. And those stitches cannot be comfortable."

Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling in exasperation.

"And this is why we are having such trouble with him. He knows that if he cries loudly enough, that you will come running to his rescue."

Her mother's expression did not waver.

"But his little face, Mary. He still looks so pitiful."

Her heart squeezed in defiance of her wishes at this truthful assertion.

"I know. But you must admit that he does look better than he did two days ago."

Her mother raised her chin in a slight challenge.

"That's hardly a decent point of comparison." She pushed down the urge to snap.

"Dr. Clarkson told us that his injuries would likely look worse before they looked better," Mary retorted, the need to be away from her mother burrowing under her skin. "He is recovering well in every way possible, except for the fact that he is regressing when it comes to his sleep habits."

"I understand," Cora replied, daring a step in her daughter's direction, wincing as a rather high-pitched wail soared through the walls. "But he is still not up to par, Mary. And some extra attention from those who love him can do nothing but hasten his recovery."

Stretched nerves finally gave way.

"Would you please just listen to me? I am his mother, for God's sake."

The demand flew from her, charging the air between them before regret could settle in. Her chest rose and fell with an uneven rhythm, and she rubbed her forehead as a dull pulse began.

"And I am your mother," Lady Grantham calmly stated, laying a hand atop her eldest's shoulder. "You need to rest."

Mary's shoulders slumped in defeat. She held no argument for such an observation.

"I suppose."

The point was pressed further.

"You have barely eaten the past few days, you look wretched, and your son is making demands that are simply too much for you right now," Cora soothed, lulling senses already worn down. "You must take better care of yourself, Mary. For your baby's sake."

Her eyes snapped to attention. Her baby? Was her mother referring to George or to the child carried in secret within her womb? She would offer nothing at this juncture, her news already known by more people than she had intended before Charles's return.

"You're right. It wouldn't do for me to become ill." She watched Cora's expression closely, awaiting a sign as to the true meaning of her phrase.

"No. It would not." Her mother raised a brow pointedly, looking into her in a manner that made Mary shift uncomfortably. "You are carrying more than you should have to bear alone, and there is no shame in asking for help when you need it."

She swallowed purposefully, reminded of the stare-down in her bedroom with this same woman the morning after she had Charles had made love. The very act that had given her this child.

"Yes. I know."

Cora inhaled audibly.

"And when exactly is Charles supposed to return?"

Another hint tossed, another implication glared shamelessly in her direction.

"In eight or nine days, so Lady Catherine tells me."

Lady Grantham nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer.

"I am glad to hear it. The sooner the better, wouldn't you agree?"

How thick the air outside the nursery had become.

"Yes. I am anxious for his return."

They stood eye to eye, brows steady, backs straight.

"As you should be. I do hope his presence will uncomplicated matters for you."

Her legs held fast by sheer determination.

"As do I, Mama. I miss him." It was then she noticed the silence, a smile tugging on the rims of her eyes as she looked over her shoulder. "He's gone to sleep," Mary breathed, her staggering relief George's resurgence of nap-time independence physical in nature.

"So it would seem," her mother offered with a smile, sliding back slightly. "And I still recommend that you do the same."

The will to fight suddenly left her.

"Alright. But you must promise not to disturb him."

Something sparked in Lady Grantham's countenance.

"Come now, Mary. Don't you think that I know when it's best to leave a delicate situation alone?"

Her heart paused momentarily.

"I would hope that you do, Mama. Especially when an interested party cannot yet speak for himself."

Cora then squeezed her hand, implanting a depth of understanding in the space of silence.

"He will find his voice very soon, I take it." Mary's eyes stared back unblinking.

"Of that, I have no doubt."

* * *

 

**_Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel_ STOP  _Puppies and kites_ STOP _Chats by the fire and dips in the lake_ STOP  **

**_Will be home sooner than planned_ STOP  _Miss you so much it hurts_ STOP  **

**_All my love,_ **

**_Charles_ **

 

_Miss you so much it hurts._

Her heart both swelled and cinched at his declaration. How much more hurt would she inflict upon his arrival? He would finally learn of their baby, and she would be relieved of this weighted preoccupation she had bound firmly to herself before he had left the country. But once it was done, his reaction was out of her hands. She must choose her words carefully.

And he would be here tomorrow.

Lady Catherine had informed her that he was supposed to dock in London sometime in the early afternoon. He then planned to catch the first train he could find to York and proceed as quickly as possible to Downton.

To her. He was planning on travelling straight back to her.

Bypassing his home, his work, even the leisure of a few hours rest to stand at her side and make up for lost time. What a fool she had been. If only she could be certain about his reaction to the fact that they were no longer alone in this slated venture on which they had just embarked. She grimaced at the discomfort in her lower back, a steady pain that had been building since she pulled herself from the bedclothes this morning reasserting its dominance. Perhaps she should stretch out again once she returned from her errands in the village. This extended walk upon which she had insisted may not have been the best of ideas, after all. Another nap would most certainly raise suspicions, but that hardly mattered as their news would be all but common-place at Downton within a handful of days.

Her mother had mentioned nothing more concerning her suspicions, but Mary had caught her watching closely upon several occasions, most particularly at the dining table. At least curry was not a part of Mrs. Patmore's repertoire. She tried to envision Charles's face when she told him, conjuring images in her mind that ranged from elation to disgust. Not disgust over the fact that they had created a child, of course. The man was clearly meant to be a father, and she reasoned that he would adapt rather well to the knowledge that there would be more than the pair of them in a relatively short amount of time. Of course, theirs had never been a relationship consisting of only two. George had always been a part of this equation, and she smiled as she envisioned her son sitting happily on the lap of man he barely knew on another train ride from London. He felt safe in the arms of this stranger, the man who hummed him to sleep when he was battling an ear infection, had crafted a kite with him on the grounds of her home, and had read to him in the nursery, forging a bond that bordered on that of a father and son.

How much had transpired since that fated trip to London months ago. Three lives had been altered beyond recognition, moving from a singular existence crossing paths with a duo to a family of four with lightning speed.

She rubbed her temples, feeling a bit unsteady at the overwhelming nature of this thought. Three months ago she was certain she would never love again. But now…. She somehow thought Matthew would approve, even laugh over the relative absurdity with which events had unfolded. Goodness knows he would never begrudge his own child a father who would both love and raise him well. For that, she was immensely thankful. Her gaze drifted in the direction of the cemetery as her palm cupped the secret of her child, balancing a life swiftly taken with one just received.

It was then that the first pain struck her, stopping her dead in her tracks. Something was not right. A chill took hold of her spine.

The baby.

A cold sweat broke out across her forehead, her upper lip, a nausea that frightened her draining her of any color she possessed. She needed to lie down. Immediately.

"Mary, dear. Is something wrong?"

She had never been so relieved to hear her mother-in-law's voice, all discomfort at being in her company washing away as the need to protect took hold.

"I'm afraid I'm not well," she managed, a dull cramping working its way up her thighs. "Might I go to your home and lie down at for a bit?"

Isobel studied her but a moment, taking the younger woman's arm with a strong grip as she offered her a smile of assurance.

"Of course. Let's get you there immediately."

They moved with as much haste as she could muster, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as panic took hold. This could not be happening…not now. Not to her child. Not to his child. Crawley House provided as much relief as anything could, a prayer forming under her breath that this sudden onslaught of discomfort would subside once she got off of her feet. Isobel quickly got her settled in the guest room, staring down at her in marked concern.

"You're crying, Mary. Are you in that much pain?"

The tenderness in her voice only made the tears form more rapidly, and Mary was uncertain if she would be able to formulate the necessary words.

"I'm pregnant, Isobel," she began, the fractured tone of her voice mirroring the state of her soul. "I'm afraid for my baby."

Mrs. Crawley's eyes widened only slightly, the nurse in her emerging immediately as she took and squeezed Mary's hand.

"I'll phone for Dr. Clarkson. In the meantime, rest is indeed the wisest thing for you—for both of you."

Their eyes met and held for a moment, so much was given and received in silence.

"Thank you," Mary managed, wiping her cheeks, attempting to breathe deeply. It was nearly impossible when she felt so much slipping away. She had just come to love this child, to accept and recognize him or her as a part of her own internal fabric. Life seemed again intent upon punishing her, upon punishing Charles, and her gaze fixed to the ceiling in a wordless plea for help, her hands summoning her baby to hold on. Her heart calling for Charles to be here with her.

The room felt hollow after Isobel made her exit, a finality settling over Mary that ached in her bones. She feared nothing could stop what had begun in her womb, a process so cruel she could not allow herself to dwell upon it. She knew this was not uncommon, understood that many women endured and survived such a loss. But she and Charles had lost enough between them. Could they not be allowed this one miracle, this one thing of beauty formed from lives rebuilt out of the ruins? How she needed him now, even though the knowledge of what was likely taking place would rip him open. She simply did not have the heart to be a storm-braver yet again.

She did not want to endure this alone.

* * *

 

Lids attempted to open, but weight continually pulled them back down, the effort to fully awaken just too much to attempt. A heaviness to which she was unaccustomed swam through her veins, her mind bleary, her sense of hearing dampened. She slid back into unconsciousness, welcoming the bliss of sleep, reveling in the peace of blackness.

The second time she returned to awareness, she was cognizant of a presence in her room. Or was this her room? The walls were an unfamiliar hue, the décor nothing that spoke of home. Her vision was still unclear, hazy in nature, and her head was pounding frantically.

"Water," she managed, the raspy edges of her throat making speech nearly impossible. Hands she somehow knew lifted her gently, supporting her back, offering a sip cool to her lips. She blinked repeatedly, finally placing the person whose scent hovered around her as a blanket.

"Mama?" she questioned, feeling oddly disoriented, the understanding that she was not at Downton confusing her, pushing her mind to make sense of something just beyond her grasp. Cora sat on the edge of the bed, setting down the glass as she stroked her daughter's cheek.

"Yes, my darling," she voiced, the ache in her heart nothing akin to what her eldest would feel when full realization struck.

"Why am I so tired?"

Cora wet her lips, determinedly keeping her voice steady as she answered a justified inquiry.

"Dr. Clarkson gave you something to help you sleep several hours ago. Its effects seem to be just now wearing off."

Mary continued trying to push herself to the surface, knowing she was close, leery of what she might discover once she got there.

"A sleeping draught?" she processed, her brows illustrating her difficulty. Perception was taunting her, her mind recalling that she had been administered a sleeping draught after Matthew had died. "But why would he…"

It was then she realized just where she was—and why. Her hands flew to her stomach, her eyes widening in a silent inquiry, dreading what her mother would tell her, but needing to know.

"I'm sorry, Mary. So very sorry."

The tears pooling in her mother's eyes pulled roughly at her own, her chin trembling as she tried to accept what she had prayed would not happen.

"Oh, God," she spoke, her voice trembling as badly as her hands. "Oh, God, Mama."

Her hand flew to her mouth, her body shaking as loss took its toll. Arms held her close, pulling this child now grown close to the womb and heart that bore her.

"I know, my precious girl," Cora whispered, rocking her back and forth. "I do know."

They remained wrapped up in each other, seared by the unwanted bond of losing one unborn, comforted in a manner offered only by those who truly knew. This was a grief too often expressed in silence, misunderstood by those whose souls it never marked, dismissed by those failing to perceive bonds formed between mothers and babes cradled within. But it was wretched. And it was real.

"Does Papa know?"

Her throat was still pasty, her limbs overly weak.

"No. Not yet. Only Isobel, Dr. Clarkson and me."

Mary nodded, still pushing through a filmy veil enshrouding her mind.

"Please don't tell him," she asked, her eyes moving from her hands to those of her mother. "Not until.."

Her own words choked her, breaking into fragments before they even reached her tongue.

"Until Charles knows," Cora finished for her, deliberately steadying her tone. "Of course, my darling. That is only right."

She could only nod in response, any remaining shreds of speech consumed by a wave of fresh tears. Tears that stained the dress of a mother feeling fresh stirrings on an old wound. Tears ushering in the first baby steps of healing on a journey neither woman would have ever chosen to take.

"How did you get through it?"

The whispered question burned a trail through her chest, a hollowness settling where his child had been but hours before.

"The same way you get through any form of grief," her mother replied, tenderly laying a hand atop her own. "Day by day."

Day by day, hour by hour…the existence she had lived for the better part of a year. An existence she had been shedding layer by layer in exchange for a chance at happiness. Happiness with a man she would now pain beyond recognition.

The thoughts of being cursed filtered back into her consciousness.

"But having George will help," Cora added, leaning in close to ensure she was clearly heard. "More than you know. There is nothing like the comfort of a living child when you have lost another."

How empty she suddenly felt, both her children now out of arm's reach, one home in the shelter of his nursery, the other confined to the world of vague images and shattered hopes.

"I do have George," she managed, shaking her head. "But Charles…he has already lost one child. And now…"

And now…

"You'll have other children, Mary," Cora insisted, the firm tone in her voice capturing her daughter's attention. "Dr. Clarkson insisted that there was no reason why you couldn't."

"I…" she tried, unable to conceive of such a thought at the moment, her mind caught in a whirlpool she hadn't the strength to fight.

"I know—it's too early to think about now," her mother hastily agreed, smiling gently. "But soon that knowledge will help and soothe both you and Charles. I promise."

Mary sighed heavily as her mind sought some clarity to a situation she wished could be erased.

"You're assuming he will still want to marry me," she murmured, raising her eyes directly to Cora's.

"That man loves you, Mary," Lady Grantham insisted, her brow brokering no disagreement. "I don't agree with all of the decisions the two of you have made, but I have no doubt he will stand by you through this, as you will by him."

Mary's eyes suddenly rounded.

"He'll be here tomorrow. Oh, God, Mama. I don't know if I can…" The words tumbled from her, landing in an unfinished heap in her lap.

"No, Mary," Cora corrected, tightening her grip in support. "You slept longer than you realized. Charles will be here later this afternoon."

Her entire body shook, Cora quickly handing her a glass of wine Isobel had poured before she left.

"Drink this," Lady Grantham commanded, easing the alcohol down her throat. "You should also try to get some rest before he arrives. Dr. Clarkson said that it was vital to your recovery."

Recovery. If only a few hours of sleep bore the power to make this better. If only she would not have to break the heart of the very man she had been preparing to inform that he was to be a father. If only she could summon back her child.

If only.

* * *

 

Finally.

The train was approaching his ultimate destination, and his legs pushed him hastily from his seat as he readied himself to disembark. Days of travelling stiffened muscles he noticed more than he cared to admit, and he stretched soundly as the first stirrings of a smile crossed his face.

Mary. He was almost to Mary. But not yet close enough.

There was still the matter of the train actually coming to a stop, arranging for his bags to be returned to Rufforth Hall and making certain that Ajit had left his car waiting for him at the station. He would journey straight to Downton from this point, the state of his hair and clothes be damned. His own ridiculous pride had forced a wedge between them that had been uncrossable for weeks, the curse of distance a hurdle created by his own hand.

No—there would be no return trip home until he had at least attempted to make things right with her. He refused to be separated from Mary one moment longer than necessary.

He stood restlessly, knowing it would be wiser to sit but unable to keep his body still any longer. Nearly two months away from her had taken its toll, and he prayed that his telegrams had at least conveyed a small measure of his feelings and remorse. God, how he missed her. A small hope tugged at him quietly, one he had harbored against his better judgment, yet he looked out the window all the same as the train finally stilled completely.

No—he didn't see her, but he might not from this angle. He chided himself for such fancies, reminding himself that she was first and foremost a mother and that he had never contacted her directly with his projected arrival times. He had wanted to surprise her, actually. So why in God's name did he allow himself to wonder if she would be here to meet him? He knew why.

Stepping onto the platform felt luxurious, and he took in the freest breath he had drawn since they had been condemned in the great hall at Downton. Her proximity made his skin tingle, and he held one bag close, the one bearing gifts for both Mary and George. He couldn't help but wonder how much the boy had grown since he had seen him and prayed the child had not forgotten him completely.

_Cat._

The endearment tugged at his heart, a pair of rounded blue eyes that must have inherited from his father making him smile in spite of himself. The image of Mary holding her son when he had been ill struck him hard, increasing his need to gather them both up in his arms and hold them close. He was done playing the fool, finished capitulating to any emotion or sensibility that didn't truly matter. His stride increased in its length, his anxiousness to be back with them escalating with each step he took towards his car. He was so close.

"Mr. Blake."

A voice he recognized halted his progress, and he turned abruptly to locate its source.

"Mrs. Crawley," he stated, a flash of confusion flexing his brow. "What a nice surprise to see you here."

Isobel stepped forward purposefully, something in her expression making him uncomfortable.

"I wish I could claim this meeting as no more than a happy coincidence," Mrs. Crawley returned, "But I'm afraid that it isn't. I am here in Mary's stead."

Ice instantly gripped his gut, drawing his face into sharp lines of fear.

"Is she alright?"

The question flew from his lips as all color drained from his countenance, external surroundings disappearing as his world narrowed.

"She will be," Isobel assured him quickly. "But she has just suffered a devastating loss. I am afraid she is emotionally fragile at the moment."

"George?" he threw out, his heart racing ahead of him, the panic obvious in his tone.

"No. No, George is perfectly well," she responded quickly, stepping a bit closer. "As are all of the Crawleys."

The helpless misunderstanding in his eyes was painful to behold.

"Then what—what has happened?"

She had to look down for a moment, knowing the blow she was about to deal him and hating the aftermath that would no doubt follow in its wake.

"Mary has suffered a miscarriage, Mr. Blake," Isobel voiced quietly, summoning the courage to look back at him directly. "Until yesterday afternoon, she was carrying your child."

He felt the world descend on his shoulders with a thud. A gray fog enveloped his brain, a stinging sensation quickly forming into aching throb that overtook his insides.

"Forgive me, I'm not certain I understand," he attempted, thoughts tripping over words as sense tried to emerge out of a hit most unexpected. "Mary was...but I thought.." His world made no sense at all.

"She's resting now," Isobel continued, placing a hand upon his arm, allowing him time to process. "At my house. Physically she will be fine, and there has been no lasting damage from what has happened. But she wanted this baby very much. And she is taking this loss rather hard."

This loss. How inadequate yet accurate the statement sounded to his ears. This loss—the loss of a baby. Their baby, a child who had slipped through his fingers at the very moment he learned of his existence. A life already cherished by one parent and whose abduction was felt keenly by both. He shook his head, the only form of denial he could afford himself.

"And you're certain," he tried, pushing back tears more stubborn than his will. "There is no chance that…"

"She needs you," Isobel stated firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, squeezing his arm. "Very badly, Charles."

The meaning of her words cut through with precision, her use of his given name only heightening his senses. Mary had endured this alone. Because he had left her.

Merciless claws of guilt crushed his rib cage, threatening to rob him of what breath he had remaining. He had to go to her immediately.

"Take me to her. Please."

Isobel nodded slowly, offering a wordless summons for him to follow her.

"Of course."

There was nothing more to say.

He made the journey in a trance, feeling as though he had been ripped from one existence and thrown into another, one that left his skin cold and his lungs gasping for air. Flashbacks of another meeting, another announcement began to circulate in his mind, and he deliberately shut them out, knowing the pain that accompanied them had no place in this present moment. He had to leave his past at Mrs. Crawley's doorstep today in order to be fully present for Mary.

She was all that mattered now.

The car pulled up to Crawley House, and he forced down the bile crawling up his throat. What in God's name could he offer her that wouldn't bring about more pain? He felt the overpowering urge to break something, fisting restless fingers in a discipline born of necessity. This was not the time to strike out at God. They would have a discussion at a later time.

Somehow his legs carried him into the house, up steps and around a corner, Isobel guiding him as she offered instructions that bounced off of his ears. Mary. His mind held only her, blocking out anything else until he stood before the door that would open to her.

"She may be resting," Isobel cautioned in a whisper. "Dr. Clarkson did give her a sleeping draught earlier."

He nodded twice, swallowing this information wordlessly.

"Is anyone with her now?" he questioned, unable to fathom that Mrs. Crawley would have left her alone.

"Lady Grantham," Isobel answered, seeing both relief and concern cross his brow. "I phoned her immediately just after Dr. Clarkson arrived."

"Thank you," he breathed. "I'm glad that her mother is with her."

It was time, they both knew, the door clicking softly as Isobel peeked her head in. She stepped back as Cora Crawley emerged, looking directly to Charles with neither censure nor welcome.

"She has just woken up again," Lady Grantham offered, fixing her expression. "This has been very hard on her."

Eyes shut in response to a fresh wave of pain crashing over his chest.

"I can imagine," he replied, returning her gaze as a fragile understanding was forged, one carved out of a mutual love for a woman who had endured enough.

"I'm very sorry, Charles," Cora voiced, touching his arm in an unexpected show of support. "Truly, I am."

He nodded, eyes cast down. So was he. God, so was he.

A path was cleared for him, and he stepped through the entrance, his heart still not fully prepared for the sight that met his eyes. She was sitting up in bed, her face nearly as white as her nightgown, her eyes swollen in evidence of tears. He crumbled in the doorway. Sheer will kept his legs upright as they carried him swiftly to her side. He was completely unaware of the door clicking shut behind him, every facet of his being tuned into her and only her.

The quiver of her chin buckled his legs, and he sat on the side of the bed, looking at her, seeing her, gently touching her face.

"I'm so sorry, Charles."

The statement broke through her chest, unleashing a dam of fresh grief that spilled down her cheeks unhindered. Then she was in his arms, against his chest, his mouth on her temple as his own pain dripped into her hair.

"No, Mary," he whispered, drawing back just enough to look at her fully. "I'm the one who is sorry. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing at all."

A knot untied in her chest, its cords leaving fresh marks as the fell upon tender ground. So much remained unspoken, so little needing to be said. She fell back into him, and he drew her close, their existence reduced to this room, this moment, this shared brokenness pouring from one to the other in a baptism of tears. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket aside, climbing onto the bed with her, cradling her to his side, into his chest, into himself. She held on to him with the desperation of one pulled from the clutches of drowning, breathing him in, accepting all that had happened even as it pierced her lungs.

"It will be alright," he offered, stroking her hair, binding her up in soft cords of reassurance. "I promise. We will get through this, Mary."

Her fingers clutched his shirt as she sniffed against his neck. His vow pushed past layers of hurt and doubt, finding a resting place in a niche freshly carved. And somehow she believed him, even in the midst of this pain.

Her form sank into his in response, all barriers lowered, all pretense aside. They would come through this, would smile yet again, even if such intangibles were beyond them at present. They were survivors and lovers, defiantly drawing life from each other in the midst of death and shadow.

"I'm tired," she finally offered, his embrace sealing her in even tighter as lids became heavy.

"Then rest," he instructed, kissing her forehead, stroking her arm in a silent benediction. "I'm not going anywhere."

He felt her breathing steady, her limbs slacken against him little by little. He drew the covers around her shoulders, warming her skin as he hoped the sun would warm their hearts in time. It was only then he allowed himself to think of his daughter, of his wife, mouthing a prayer of thanks that Mary lay alive and breathing in his arms. His heart was fractured, but it beat stubbornly on, prodded by this woman who stepped into his life and for some reason allowed him to love her. He shed more tears in silence, losing count as consciousness began to slide from his grasp. Then the room blurred around him, his head dropping forward to his chest as all fight left his body.

And cocooned in an embrace that refused to be broken, they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To say this chapter was difficult to write would be a gross understatement. The pain of a miscarriage is not easy to portray, and I pray this attempt was well-conveyed and respectfully worded for those who have suffered such a loss. I knew this was coming, tried to prepare myself for it, but I still would get up and pace after writing a few paragraphs. (I even teared up once-I never do that with my own writing...) I do assure you that things get better in the next chapter. 
> 
> In the meantime, your feedback is always most welcome.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Charles discuss the future, and Charles confronts Robert.

She stirred, feeling his chest rise and fall under her cheek, his scent filling her lungs, his arms sheltering her back. She pushed herself slightly from his ribs, staring into a face she has seen in sleep only once. How relaxed the lines around his eyes, how boyish the slight crook in his cheek.

Her heart winced as all that has happened rushed back in a contorted tidal wave, pressure building behind her cheekbones as emotion pressed against her eyes. Would their baby have looked like him, she wondered, adorned with a head full of unruly brown hair and dimples that would never cease to melt her? She folded her face into his shoulder, nuzzling in, absorbing the simple comfort that his presence brought, pushing away the notion that the two of them wouldn't be able to stay like this at Crawley House indefinitely.

He was here. With her. For now, that was enough.

He later shifted and sensed her alertness, pressing her in closer as strong arms held her tight. His strokes along her hair soothed more profoundly than they should, heavy hearts greedily drawing peace from the simplest of gestures.

"Charles," she murmured, disturbing the silence.

"Yes?" he responded, turning to her so he would miss nothing.

"What if.." She hesitated, uncertain if she yet possessed the strength to voice what she feared. He moved his touch to her forehead, making her feel safe. Making her feel loved. "What if I am unable to give you another child?"

Her unease stared clearly back at him, the price of such a direct inquiry etched onto her expression.

"I thought Dr. Clarkson said that no lasting damage had been done?" he questioned softly, stroking the length of her arm.

"He did, but—" She paused yet again, biting the edge of her lip. "What if he's wrong?"

His breath brushed her shoulder, his gaze never faltering.

"Then it will be you, me and George. We'll be a family."

She detected no waver in his tone, no shift in his body position.

"And is that enough for you?"

His kiss on her cheek was tender, the raw emotion on his lips felt keenly.

"More than enough. And much more than I deserve."

Something was still bothering her, something that went beyond the pain of what was lost. He traced her cheek, beckoning eyes that stared at her hands towards his own.

"What is it, Mary?"

She swallowed, turning her face up to his, lacing her fingers into his hair.

"I should never have said what I did before you left. About there being no baby."

The tremor that crawled up her limbs pressed against his own, and he held her closer, bringing her directly to his body.

"And I should have never put you in such an impossible situation," he responded, feeling her entire frame fall into him. "Please don't blame yourself for this."

"You don't think that this is some sort of punishment, do you?" she voiced, ashamed at her own suspicions yet powerless to stop them. "For lying to you as I did?"

"God, no," he exclaimed, sitting up a bit taller. "Don't even allow yourself to think such a thing."

She hung her head, wanting desperately to believe him while she wondered if he blamed himself. Other thoughts began to stack themselves on top of each other, ones that needed a voice held silent for too long.

"Sometimes it's difficult not to," she began, looking at him directly. "To wonder."

It was his spine that shuddered this time, his own past nudging his sense of unease.

"That's not how things work, Mary. There are just some things in this life that defy explanation," he put forth, convincing himself as much as he was attempting to allay her misgivings. "If we try to assign blame where none is merited, we just end up hurting ourselves even more."

She exhaled audibly, fingers stroking his chest.

"You're probably right," she mused, still uncertain of her own convictions.

"I hope that I am," he agreed, squeezing her shoulder.

"Conceiving George wasn't easy for Matthew me and. Not at first." He nodded, understanding this frustration and touched by her willingness to share such details from a life still held close.

"Rashmi and I had difficulties, as well." She caressed his cheek, her brow creasing slightly.

"I know. I remember you telling me."

How long ago that evening of revelation now seemed. He rubbed her back, the gesture seeming to settle her further.

"I had to have a surgery, you see," she offered, her voice barely above a whisper. She noted the first lines of surprise crease his face, his expression rather akin to what Matthew's had been when he had first learned of that detail. "A procedure to repair a blockage of sorts."

It was impossible to look at him after the words left her mouth. Talking about her body in such a mechanical fashion made her skin squirm uncomfortably.

"To conceive a baby, you mean?" he asked, the thought never having occurred to him. Her nod was answer enough, and he wondered why she would not meet his eye. "That is nothing to be ashamed of, Mary," he assured her, tilting her chin so she was caught in his gaze. "How wonderful that the problem could be fixed and you were able to give birth to George."

"Yes," she breathed, laying her head back down on his chest. "I just worry that…"

"Shhh," he insisted, lacing his fingers through his own. "There's no need to worry about the unknown, Mary. Things will work themselves out at the right time. You'll see."

How she hoped he was right. She remembered the moment she first suspected, the anxiety she carried for weeks as she awaited a final verdict, praying it would be in her favor, frightened it would be another false alarm. How quickly the fear of surgery and the embarrassment of discovery had fled when Dr. Clarkson confirmed what she had hoped. Matthew's expression when she told him was one she memorized and pressed into her soul, a near match for the smile he had worn when he met and held his son. A moment that was now and forever her own.

A hope then quietly stirred, one that she might see another face alight with that same joy, that brown eyes would one day shine in anticipation rather than crease in pain. How odd that the very thing she had dreaded for weeks was now something she desired and hoped would come to pass, and the very thing she had lost.

It was then she realized something fundamental had shifted, her line of thought now traipsing down a road she had been reluctant to travel. She was thinking of them as a unit: She, Charles and George. And he had shown no shock as they discussed the future and the past, had even reassured her that she and George were all the family he needed if another baby never came along.

A family. The three of them. How such an abrupt change had occurred nearly undetected, she could not say. But it had.

And to her astonishment, she feared it no more. 

* * *

 

He slipped into the hallway, allowing her some time with her mother, needing to make arrangements of his own. He paused by the door and shut his eyes, his hand resting on the door frame, his soul to the point of cracking. Knees nearly gave out, a heart stretched to the point of physical pain thudding insistently, a mind overwhelmed by the changes in his life over the past few hours racing to both grasp hold of reality and process new grief.

They had spoken to each other as if they were already a family, discussing George, the possibility of other children, the reality that such children might never exist. His chest caved in, breaths emerging heavily from his lungs as he willed his feet to move down the hall. It hurt. God, it just hurt everywhere.

It was then he realized he was no longer alone.

Isobel Crawley was there, standing near the stairs.

"How is she?"

Concerned eyes stared back at him, coercing his shoulders to relax a bit.

"She's getting there," he answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "She actually asked for something to eat. I thought that was a good sign."

"It's a very good sign," Isobel agreed, nodding several times. "I'll order up some soup for her, something warming and easy to digest."

"That sounds perfect," he responded, offering her what he could assemble of a smile. "Thank you."

Isobel stared back at this man, father of Mary's child just lost, most likely the only father her grandson would ever know.

"There will be more than enough for you, as well, Mr. Blake."

The magnitude of her gesture echoed in the stairwell, nearly stilling his blood.

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Crawley," he finally uttered, shaking his head slightly. "But please, call me Charles."

"Charles," she nodded, looking towards Mary's room. "And you must call me Isobel."

"Very well," he returned, a rising admiration for her filling his chest. "And I shall accept your offer after I return from securing a room."

Her genuine confusion gave him pause.

"There is no need for that, Charles."

"Yes there is," he insisted, running his hand over his scalp. "I will not return to Rufforth Hall while she's like this. I intend to be as close as possible in case Mary needs me." His chest then collapsed, the brokenness in his eyes difficult for her to take in. "I left her once. I won't make the same mistake again."

For a moment, neither could speak.

"I believe you misunderstand me, Charles," Isobel began, clearing her throat. "What I meant to say is that there is no need for you to secure a room in town when I have a perfectly good room for you here."

He looked at her directly, attempting to process what has just been spoken.

"Here? At Crawley House? But I thought Mary was settled in the guest room"

Her eyes faltered, her swallowing forced. Yet she took a step forward, deliberately brightening her gaze as her breath shook.

"It is Matthew's old room I offer," she managed, the words scraping the side of her throat. "It's sitting in disuse, and he would want you to…" She sniffed, blinking rapidly as she garnered the courage to continue. "He would want Mary to be well looked after."

That's when he could look past her no longer.

"Thank you, Mrs. Crawley," he uttered, shaking his head in amazement. "I don't know what to say."

"Just say yes," she stated softly, reaching forward to squeeze his arm. First contact was made between them as he attempted to give her an answer.

He fell apart instead.

It all poured out of him, everything that had been held back pushing past boundaries no stronger than a castle of sand. He was guided into a nearby room, seated upon a soft surface as the hands of a mother rested on his back. How long they sat together he could not say, but she did not move until his last tear was spent, standing only when she seemed certain that the worst of it had passed. She murmured something to someone outside of his eyesight, the sound of her step alerting him of her return as he attempted to gain control.

"I've sent for some tea," she explained, taking a seat across from him. "I thought it might help."

"Thank you," he managed, his eyes suddenly tired. "You are very kind."

He swallowed past the thickness in his throat, wiping his cheek with his bare hand as his other searched his pocket for a handkerchief. His handkerchief.

"This is how we met, you know," he began, looking into a past still recent. "I accidentally entered her berth on the train, thinking it was empty. But she was bending over, looking for a handkerchief. I gave her mine." He toyed with the slip of cloth in his hand.

"Was this on George's birthday?" she queried, pressing her lips more tightly than usual. "When Mary took him to London?"

"Yes. It was."

She looked at him directly.

"You love her, don't you?"

It was a statement, not a question, but she awaited his confirmation just the same.

"More than I can say," he answered, rubbing his chin.

"I'm so glad," she returned, her smile quivering slightly. "Mary deserves to be happy again."

Guilt pressed his eyes to the floor.

"And look what I've brought to her life," he stated, the self-reproach heavy in his voice. "More heartache, even after I promised to protect her."

"You're only human, you realize," Isobel asserted, sitting up taller. "There's only so much we can control in this life, and the rest we simply must learn to accept and overcome."

He pressed his eyes shut, allowing her words to enter and take root.

"But the fact remains that I should never have gone to America," he clarified, directing his gaze back to her. "Perhaps if I hadn't…"

"Forgive me, Charles," she interrupted, "But a miscarriage is not something you could have prevented even had you been here. You and Mary would have still lost this baby, and your grief would be just as profound."

His shoulders collapsed as all defiance left him.

"Focus on helping her heal rather than directing needless blame at yourself," Isobel continued, looking up as the tea service was brought into the room. "It will be much more beneficial for you both, I assure you."

She poured him a cup that he readily accepted. The steaming brew soothed its way down his throat, and he leaned back in his seat, allowing his body to relax.

"I suppose Mary will want to return to Downton tomorrow," he ventured, taking another sip. "I know how much she misses George."

Isobel could not help but smile at the mention of her grandson.

"I'm certain she does, just as he must be missing his mother." There was a pause, one whose meaning was evident as they stared at each other intently. "You will take care of him?" she put forth, feeling something loosen in her rib cage as a genuine smile crossed his face. "George, I mean."

"Just as if he were my own," he stated without hesitation, his tone clear and direct.

A nod was all she could muster, her show of trust more than he ever imagined. And within the walls of this newly-forged understanding, they quietly finished their tea.

* * *

 

Walking into Downton had rarely felt so strange. She held no memory of doing so when she returned from the hospital with George, those first days and nights such a blur that only selected images retained clarity while most blurred into a backdrop of blacks and grays. But everything was sharp today, the mood solemn, the atmosphere uneasy as she stepped within the enclosure of her home.

Thank God she had Charles holding her steady.

Her mother had honored her request, ensuring them an entrance without fanfare. Attempting to swim against the tide of ceremony was simply too much to consider, the mere thought of having a bevy of eyes on her back truly sickening. The entire staff would have been informed of what had transpired, a fact which both soothed and disturbed her. It was necessary that there be no questions asked about what hurt too much to voice. Talking was the very last thing she wanted to do. In all honestly, she had longed for Charles to take her straight to Rufforth Hall where she could rest without judgment and simply exist without explanation. But George was here at Downton. And right now, she needed her son.

"Are you alright?" he questioned softly, scanning the perimeter to make certain they were undisturbed.

"Just a bit tired," she admitted, looking to him as he nodded.

"We should get you to bed, then," he reasoned, squeezing her hand slightly. "The rest will do you good."

"That's all I've done for the past two days," she replied, stopping to stare with new eyes upon a place she had lived all her life.

No one. There was no one standing nearby to meet them.

Her mother's absence was not surprising, Cora having volunteered to personally check in on Lady Catherine so Charles could accompany Mary back to Downton. But the fact that her father was missing was akin to a slap on the face. Robert had been well-versed in the tragedy that had befallen her, yet there had been no visit, no note, and now no reception. The disappointment gnawed at her insides. Of course, they had barely spoken to each other since that horrid evening months ago, conversation always kept to a minimum and manners practiced with forced civility. She blamed him, actually, for placing their backs against a wall and pushing Charles out the door. And the way he looked at her now, as if she were somehow less than she had been before…

"Welcome home, my lady."

Tears pricked instantly against the edges of her lashes, a rich baritone voice summoning her attention as it covered her pain.

"Carson," she managed, dropping her eyes.

"Will you please allow me to express just how sorry I am," the butler stated, each word pressing into her. "How sorry we all are. For both of you."

She felt Charles's arm quiver slightly, sensed his intake of breath.

"Thank you, Carson," he voiced, meeting the man eye to eye. "This has not been easy for either of us."

She finally drew her gaze to the older man's face, his expression nearly breaking her.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Carson replied. She prayed for the strength to get through this. "If you will allow me, my lady," he continued calmly, moving to her opposite side and taking her free arm. Her feet followed their lead as the two men bore her up steps and in the direction of her bedroom.

"Wait," she insisted quietly, stopping mid-stride. "I need to see George."

They paused, and she felt their eyes over her head.

"What if we get you settled, Mary, and then bring George to you?" Charles suggested, his brow knit tightly. "That way we can get you off of your feet before you wear yourself out."

"I can sit in the rocking chair well enough," she returned, making him smile at this first sign of spark. "Please," she continued, her words morphing into a plea. "I need to be with him now."

His nod spoke for him, as he looked to Carson with the signal to proceed. They made their way to the nursery, the urgency to feel her son's living form against her breast increasing with each step.

"I can walk in on my own strength," she stated when they reached the door. "And I think it will be better if George sees me that way. I don't want to frighten him."

His eyes showed his understanding, and he leaned back slightly.

"Are you certain you're up to it?"

"I'm fine," she insisted softly, raising a brow towards him in emphasis. "I'm fine."

Charles stood back as she opened the door. And there he was.

George reacted to his mother's presence immediately, tossing his arms and body in her direction as Nanny Thompson stood from the rocking chair. Mary moved to the seat just abandoned, taking him quickly, grasping him close.

Thank God. Thank God.

His babbling rolled over her like the lushest of melodies, the silken texture of his hair more precious than any jewelry she possessed. She breathed him in, absorbing every facet of his existence into emotions scraped raw. She couldn't stop kissing him, this son who reached up to trace the tears spilling down her cheeks. How easily she could have lost him when he fell. This was new-a pearly tooth beginning to emerge beneath pink gums. And the marks from his stitches were now more faded than she remembered.

How had so much changed within a mere two days?

Her heart was to the point of bursting. His was stretched to the point of pain.

He had to turn his face, moving to the side of the door frame as his chest shook. He inhaled roughly, muffling his grief into his arm as what had been lost hit him afresh. A firm hand then grasped his shoulder, and he turned to look directly into the face of Mr. Carson.

"Anna is waiting for Lady Mary in her bedroom," the butler explained softly. "I thought you would like to know."

His words sank in slowly, and Charles shook his head to clarify what wasn't making sense.

"What about Campbell?"

"When Anna heard what had happened, she asked for permission to attend Lady Mary until she came through the worst of it," Carson elaborated, his brow raising slightly. "Campbell agreed as she understood the painful nature of this situation. That's why there is an extra crib in the corner. Nanny Thompson has volunteered to watch over Marianne while Anna is looking after Lady Mary." The corner of his mouth raised slightly as he shook his head. "Of course, now that Mrs. Hughes has the girl, and I'm beginning to wonder if Nanny Thompson will ever get her back."

God—what to say?

He ravaged his hair as he attempted to process this news, pacing back and forth until it settled. There it was, the crib that had gone somehow unnoticed, staring back at him. A crib that should have been prepared for another baby in a few months' time.

"Where is Lord Grantham?"

His question drew Carson's attention immediately, the butler's discomfort in answering evident.

"Not where he should be," Carson returned quietly as he stared meaningfully to the pair sitting in the nursery. His fist flexed involuntarily.

"Would you kindly inform His Lordship that Lady Mary has arrived home safely?"

No attempt was made to disguise the sarcasm dripping from his lips.

"I shall do so, Mr. Blake," Carson returned. "With all due expediency."

"Thank you, Carson" he managed, watching the other man's eyes crease in recognition as he nodded his head slowly.

"Think nothing of it," Carson stated deliberately. "I shall leave her to your care, Mr. Blake. Tend to her well."

There was no question that he had just been issued a command.

"I shall," he returned, clearing his throat. "I refuse to let her down again."

A slow nod of acceptance preceding the butler's departure. Charles watched him go, his thoughts tugging him in a myriad of different directions, none of them down a path he particularly wanted to take.

"Cat!"

The summons grabbed his immediate attention. He stepped quickly into the nursery, all frustration melting away at the eagerness staring back at him with rounded blue eyes. Their bearer squirmed out of his mother's lap, pudgy legs forging a direct line towards arms now extended. He scooped the boy up readily, relishing his weight and the mixed scents of warmth and powder.

"Hello, George," he exclaimed as the child grabbed his nose. "Look at how you've grown!"

Hair was mussed, noses pinched, sloppy kisses haphazardly dotted across his cheeks. A young squeal of delight instigated a laugh Charles felt all over. He then looked to her as George babbled on, feeling now what he saw shining in her eyes. Hope—stirring within the embers. Even here, even now.

"Gook, gook," the boy cried, pointing to something on the floor with insistence.

"Book," Mary translated, noting Charles's confusion. "He wants you to read his book to him, the one you gave him about the Teddy Bear and the airplane. He insisted on it several times while you were away."

And he had feared the child might not remember him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he stated, receiving a look from Mary he now knew well.

"We've already covered that, I believe," she whispered, somewhat mesmerized by the pair of them huddled so naturally together.

"So we have," he returned quietly.

Enough said.

He set George down and watched him scamper to the object of his desire, moving to sit on the floor across from Mary. The child promptly crawled into his lap, handing him the story as he tapped the cover excitedly.

"Is this the right gook, George?" he asked with a grin, quickly wiping the corners of his eyes before clearing his throat.

"Bear," George responded, pointing to the creature in question.

"Yes, bear," Charles replied as he opened the cover, embellishing the story with sound effects and accenting it with occasional belly tickles that made George giggle. Mary watched them, unable to look away, unwilling to consider anything but the sight in front of her. This was good. More than good, actually. This was right, what she wanted, what she needed to step forward. There was still so much uncertainty in what the future would hold, but there always would be. She suddenly had so much to tell him, but doubted her lips could yet form the words. Instead she simply stared at him, watching him with her son, memorizing an image she wanted to keep with her the rest of her life.

And when his eyes finally captured her own, she knew he understood.

* * *

 

_Slam._

The booming echo of the oak door reverberated through the room. He watched the Robert's head snap around in surprise, his every muscle and nerve on high alert.

"Who's there?" a shocked voice demanded. He purposefully emerged from the shadows, the rage pulsing in his ears reaching a nearly deafening roar. "Mr. Blake," Robert shot back derisively. "How dare you intrude upon my privacy in such a manner? Have you not taken enough liberties in this house already?"

Charles inhaled deeply, reigning in his anger.

"Lady Mary is in her bedroom resting. But I think you're already aware of that, Lord Grantham."

"Yes. Of course, I'm aware," Robert returned defensively, straightening his spine. "I do like to keep apprised of important happenings within my own home."

The hurled accusation landed squarely at his feet.

"Your daughter," Charles persisted undeterred. "Is upstairs in her bedroom, recovering from a miscarriage."

"I know very well what has befallen Mary, Mr. Blake," Robert spat, now nearly toe-to-toe with the man. "I don't need you to inform me of the status of my own family members."

"Someone evidently needs to!" Charles shot back, the veins in his temple beginning to throb. "Because any father worth his salt would have at least checked on her well-being at some point this afternoon."

"Do not question my skills as a father!" Robert shouted, leaning in closer. "You of all people have no right."

He bit back the retort he wanted to fire, drawing measured breaths, quelling the overpowering urge to hit Robert Crawley square on the jaw.

"I of all people shouldn't have to, Lord Grantham," he returned, the edge in his tone cutting sharply. "But someone needs to tell you that you are behaving like a complete ass."

Robert snatched his lapels harshly, and Charles fought the urge to shove back hard.

"If it weren't for the fact that for some reason my daughter loves you, I would have you thrown out on the street and banished from this house forever!"

"And if it weren't for the fact that your daughter loves you, I would never dare to speak to you as I am doing right now."

Their stare held firm as Robert slowly backed away.

"You—," the earl attempted, shoving his finger as close to Charles's nose as he dared. "You have no right to speak to me of my daughter's feelings."

He squared his shoulders, eyeing the man without blinking.

"Mary needs you right now, Lord Grantham. She has been hurt by this more than you know."

"How dare you presume to tell me what I do and do not know?" Robert returned quickly, turning his face to the window. "Her mother and I went through the same experience years ago."

"Then why are you locked away in your library rather than upstairs offering Mary your support?" Charles questioned incredulously.

"Because this situation should have never existed in the first place!" Robert asserted, landing a blow Charles felt physically. He paused, flexing his fingers, attempting to draw an even breath.

"This situation was a child that would have been your grandson or granddaughter," Charles fought back, his voice rising measurably. "My child. Mary's child, for God's sake!"

The earl froze momentarily, swallowing audibly as his eyes and voice narrowed.

"Which makes this entire tragedy your fault, doesn't it, Blake? You brought this pain upon Mary—you, and no one else."

His gut cinched at the accusation.

"Mary and I created that baby," he began, breathing rapidly to overcome the sharp sting in his chest. "Yes. I readily admit to that fact. Our actions that night may not have been the wisest, but they do not warrant her being treated no better than a fallen woman in her own home nor the child we lost referred to as a mere unfortunate situation."

"I am not treating her in any such manner," Robert defended. "But I cannot condone what she did and how she subsequently behaved when confronted about her indiscretion."

"Her indiscretion?" Charles fought back, pacing in frustration. "Mary is a grown woman, a mother, a widow. She neither deserves to be called out for her decisions nor requires your approval." He halted, gazing at Robert directly. "But she loves you, and she is in desperate need of your support at this moment."

Robert shook his head slightly, taking one step in Blake's direction.

"Regardless of what you may or may not believe, Mr. Blake, I love my daughter very much."

His hands trembled with the urge to shake the older man.

"Then forgive me, Lord Grantham, but you're a fool." The earl stared back at him in shock.

"What in God's name do you mean by that?"

Charles stood motionless, swallowing past the tightness in his throat, the clock's rhythmic ticking unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence.

"You've lost one daughter. So have I." He paused as all color drained from the earl's face, his mouth suddenly parched. "You've lost another child, one denied the right of birth," he continued, daring a step forward, his pulse drumming incessantly. "So have I." He faced Robert directly, standing so close he could almost feel the perspiration forming on the man's forehead. "Yet you stand here pushing a living child away, even though she craves your attention." He watched a small crack form in Lord Grantham's expression, noting a slight tremor in the older man's cheek as he shook his head in disbelief.

"That, sir, makes you a fool in my book."

He then turned on his heels and made his way to the exit, shutting the door behind him in disgust without ever looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a deep and abiding love for Papa Carson and treasure his relationship with Mary as one of my favorites on Downton.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert and Mary break their silence with each other, and Charles gives Mary a gift.

"I don't like it, Mary," Charles insisted gently, taking her hand within his as her dinner tray was carried away. His stomach knotted at the thought of leaving, the lines around his eyes emphasizing his dilemma.

"I know you don't," she replied, giving him a sympathetic look, "You've made that very clear. But the fact is that you have not left my side since you returned from America. You need to go home, Charles, to see your aunt, if for no other reason." He inhaled audibly, shaking his head slightly as if to pose an argument. "I know how much she has missed your company."

Her words struck home, and his brow knit together firmly, his internal struggle evident in the line of his shoulders.

"Please, Charles," she soothed, "I shall feel much better if you do."

"Alright," he returned, eyeing her in a manner which stated he was still none too pleased with this arrangement. "But only if you're certain."

"I have Anna, Mama, and Carson all fussing over me like a flock of mother hens," she observed with a sideways grin. "I believe they can adequately manage until you return."

The notable absence of her father in the list of care-givers made him cringe yet again.

"I do have gifts for you and George back at Rufforth Hall," he admitted softly, watching her eyes widen in surprise. "I wanted to give them to you sooner, but…" He paused, the slight tremor in his chin making speech somewhat difficult. "It just wasn't the right time."

She took a steadying breath, his emotional state bringing her to the brink of breaking yet again.

"I do hope you chose well," she tried, leveling her own voice with determination. "You know how picky I can be when it comes to surprises."

The lopsided grin made an appearance, tugging on her heart-strings as it always did.

"Do you know how badly I want to climb in that bed with you and hold you close until you go to sleep?"

She shivered as his words touched her physically, the need to be drawn into him almost overpowering.

"This is Downton, Charles," she reminded him gently. "Not Crawley House. I'm afraid everything we do here is under constant surveillance."

"I'm not sure I care about that any more, Mary," he stated, the frankness of his statement filling the space between them. "Not after everything we've been through, all of the pain you have suffered. I just…" He faltered again, dropping his gaze to intertwined hands. "I want to take care of you. Regardless of what anyone else may think."

Her eyes blinked rapidly, the depth of his assertion almost too much to take in.

"You are taking care of me," she affirmed, looking at him directly. "Going home tonight and sleeping in your own bed will not change that. " He fought to keep his composure, sitting up straighter as Anna entered the room. "Besides," Mary added softly, "You can check up on me as soon as you return."

"Which will be tomorrow," he stated firmly, his gaze resolute. "As quickly as I am able to get here."

She squeezed his hand in response.

"Just don't arrive with the sunrise," she replied, leaning into him. "I can be horribly cranky if I don't get my sleep."

"I know," he reminded her, heartened by the renewed splash of color in her cheeks. "Remember that night in the nursery?"

"That's hardly a fair comparison," she retorted, quirking her gaze. "George was unwell, if you remember."

"How could I forget?" he mused, somehow closer to her than he had been just seconds before. "You were beautiful, even when pacing the floor with an unhappy George at an ungodly hour."

"And you still need to go home," she stated flatly. "No matter how much charm you attempt to toss in my direction or divert me from the topic at hand."

He grinned guiltily, shaking his head at her insistence.

"You are a stubborn woman, Mary Crawley," he dared, rewarded by a flash of energy in her eyes.

"If you're just noticing that, you're much duller than I thought," she teased, thankful for the lighter tone of their conversation. "Now go."

He kissed her lightly, mindful of Anna's presence in her bedroom as he stood.

"You will let me know if I am needed?" he asked Mrs. Bates. "For any reason at all."

"Of course, Mr. Blake," Anna assured him. "You have my word."

He looked back at Mary again, running fingers through his hair as he moved towards the door.

"I'll say my good-byes to George, and then I'll be off," he informed them, fiddling with his hands awkwardly as he lingered at the exit. "Promise me you will take it easy."

"I already have," she insisted, raising a brow slightly. "Twice."

He smiled at her again, biting his lower lip and shaking his head slightly.

"I love you, Mary," he stated, his assurance warming her chest. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she replied, staring at the doorframe after he stepped through.

"He's a good man," Anna observed, moving in Mary's direction to fluff her pillows.

"Yes, he is," Mary agreed. "A very good man."

"Can I get you anything else?" Anna asked, looking down at her with concern.

"I don't think so," Mary replied. "You should fetch Marianne and go home soon, Anna. I'm already dressed for bed, and I don't want you out late on my account."

"And what of my promise to Mr. Blake?" she questioned.

"You'll be back in the morning," Mary returned. "And I'm not planning to do anything but sleep tonight."

"Alright, then," Anna agreed, draping a silken dressing gown over her arm. "But are you sure you're alright?"

Mary paused, pushing back emotion pressing tightly against her eyelids. "I've been better," she admitted quietly. "I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But I'll manage."

"I'm so sorry, my lady," Anna offered quietly, daring a step closer. "I hate that you have had to go through this. It seems unfair after everything else you have suffered this year."

Mary's throat constricted in spite of herself, and she fought back tears that had plagued her for three days.

"Thank you, Anna," she managed, swallowing back the thickness in her mouth. "It hasn't been easy."

The maid pressed her lips tightly, clasping her hands together.

"If it bothers you for me to have Marianne here, just say so," Anna gushed, her voice unsteady. "I can try to make other arrangements for her if that will ease your discomfort."

Mary stared at the other woman, attempting to process what had just been offered.

"No," Mary asserted firmly. "Marianne will never be a bother. She is always welcome here."

"If you say so, my lady," Anna returned.

"Besides, she'll be here on a regular basis starting next week," Mary put forward, tilting her head slightly. "Unless you have changed your mind."

"No, my lady," Anna affirmed with a dip of her chin. "I have not changed my mind." A small sigh of relief escaped her, the knowledge that Anna would still be George's nanny a balm to her spirit. "In fact, Lady Grantham spoke to me about that very thing earlier today."

"Mama?" Mary questioned, taken aback by this statement. "What did she have to say?"

Anna chewed her bottom lip before looking back at her directly.

"She informed me that Nanny Thompson would be staying on to tend to Miss Sybbie," Mrs. Bates began, her words weighed carefully. "And that I would be seeing to Marianne and Master George."

"Two nannies?" Mary clarified. "Does she not think you can manage three children?"

"No, that's not it," Anna grinned, toying with her hands. "It's just that she doesn't want to lose Nanny Thompson and then have to search for a new nanny when and if…" She paused, swallowing as her eyes darted uncomfortably.

"When and if Charles and I get married."

The statement settled between them slowly, the words not as foreign to her tongue as they would have been but weeks ago.

"Yes," Anna confirmed, clearly relieved that she did not have to go into further detail. "It would seem that Miss Sybbie has bonded well with Nanny Thompson and that she fits into the household very well."

"That's true enough," Mary nodded, processing the conversations that had obviously taken place while she had been recovering. "And Mama believes that I shall attempt to steal you and Bates away to Rufforth Hall if I move there in the near future?"

The reality of a life lived in two places began to pulse through her veins, the thought of managing two estates taking root rapidly. Marriage to Charles seemed suddenly very close indeed.

"So it would seem," Anna returned.

"Would I succeed?" Mary questioned, leaning forward slightly.

"With me, yes," Anna answered frankly, her arms dropping to her side. "But I haven't yet broached the subject with Mr. Bates. I'm not certain how he would feel about leaving his lordship."

"And Charles does not employ a valet," Mary noted, her mind attempting to unravel this new development. "Perhaps I should endeavor to persuade him to see the need."

"I think you could persuade him to do almost anything," Anna noted, rewarded with a sudden rounding of Mary's eyes.

"That's true enough," Mary smiled. "But he can be rather stubborn when he wants to be."

"Perish the thought," Anna grinned.

"Indeed," Mary threw back, relaxing her shoulders into the pillows. "Thank you, Anna. And do take Marianne home and get some rest."

"I will, my lady," she returned, moving with measured step to the exit. "Goodnight."

Weary muscles settled with relief into the comfort of pillows and sheets, a mixture of emotions swirling uncontrollably as the reality of being alone for the first time in days sank in. There was still a hollowness that ached all over, a longing for something precious she knew could never be reclaimed. Yet she was home with George, in her own bed. And Charles…

She sat up as a tap sounded on her door.

"Come in," she commanded, expecting Anna to emerge. "Did you forget something?"

Her body stilled, her breath snarled helplessly in her ribs. Her father stood unmoving in the doorway.

"May I come in?"

Her brow creased, her head nodding before she could formulate the words.

"Yes. Of course."

His steps were measured, his expression pained as he made his way to her bedside. The silence between them was potent, his breathing the only sound that penetrated her ears.

"How are you feeling?"

His question hung between them, her surprise in seeing him tripping coherent thoughts as they sought to emerge.

"Tired," she finally managed, watching him closely as he sat in a nearby chair.

"I won't keep you long, then," Robert said, his gaze moving continually about her room uncomfortably.

"It's alright, Papa," Mary stated, pushing herself up a bit taller. "I've done very little but rest the past several days."

His face crumbled at her words, his chin quivering as he looked down at his hands.

"Of course, you haven't, I…" Lord Grantham's eyes found hers and held them fast, his turmoil evident in the broken lines of his face. "I'm so sorry, Mary." His chest deflated as he hung his head. "For this…for everything." Her lungs constricted as her own eyes pooled, her jaw clenching hard. "I should have been there for you when you arrived earlier today," he continued, the raw edge of his voice pressing her heart. "No. I should have come to Crawley House immediately when I heard the news."

"Yes. You should have."

He flinched as if she had struck him, standing once again as he paced the floor. Further speech then failed her, and she wiped her eyes to ward off the stubborn edge of tears.

"You're right," he asserted. "And I have no valid defense. I let my stupid pride and anger keep me from supporting you at a time when I should have been at your side without question." He paused, looking at her directly. "Can you ever forgive me?"

His admission cut through the emotional fog in her mind, forcing words to form as she nodded her head.

"Of course," she managed, her tone ragged. Her words lured him back to his seat, and he leaned in closer, folding his hands in his lap.

"I fear you have made this too easy for me."

"I don't want to fight anymore," she confessed quietly, caging in as much emotion as she was able. "When all is said and done, it's rather pointless, isn't it?"

His sigh was heavy, his expression even more so.

"Yes. When all is said it done, it most certainly is."

They sat in silence another moment, so much left unspoken on still fragile ground.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Robert finally questioned, watching her carefully. "I know nothing can adequately make up for how I have treated you, but if I can do anything to repair the damage I have done, I would very much like to know what it is."

She stared back at her father, the sincerity in his eyes almost too much to process.

"If you could try to get along with Charles," she began, her gaze steadily marking his reaction, "It would make things easier. For all of us."

His mouth pressed into a thin line as he nodded in agreement.

"I many not like the man at this moment, nor agree with the choices the two of you have made," Lord Grantham returned. "But I must give him credit for his faithfulness and protective stance towards you." His words were a beginning, the hint of a fresh start that loosed some of the constriction in her lungs.

"He loves me," Mary admitted quietly, taking his handkerchief from her nightstand. "He leaves me in no doubt of that."

"And do you love him?"

They met eye to eye, and she was reminded of another difficult discussion many years prior when he instructed her to go to America and find a cowboy.

"Yes," she replied. "I do, actually."

Robert exhaled audibly, the lack of surprise on his features quite telling.

"Then I shall apologize to him, as well," he stated, standing slowly to take his leave. "And make every effort to get to know him better."

So much lay behind his offer, Mary knew, strife with Tom and Sybil, the profound grief of losing his daughter as well as a child never born.

"Thank you, Papa," she replied softly. "That means more than you know."

He looked at her once more before leaning down to kiss the top of her head. The contact shook as it permeated senses still unguarded. Her eyes followed him out of the room, and she remained motionless for several minutes, still processing what had just occurred. Yet the beckoning of her pillow was insistent, its softness more soothing than she remembered as cheeks freshly marked by tears touched down. She wondered if Charles had spoken with him, then pushed the thought aside, convincing herself that it didn't matter if he had or had not. The fact was that an olive branch had been extended, a gulf finally crossed.

And wrapped in the arms of this fresh reassurance, she finally closed her eyes.

* * *

 

"Mr. Blake."

His name summoned his attention, his mind so transfixed on reaching Mary he had missed the man's presence standing so near.

"Lord Grantham," he acknowledged steadily, unsure of the direction this conversation might take. Robert stepped as close as he dared, his eyes direct but without the marked hostility they held during their last exchange.

"What you said to me yesterday," the older man began, dropping his chin slightly. "You were right." Charles continued to stare at him, the surprise on his features evident. "And I am sorry. For all of it."

Charles's fingers twitched at his side, his lips pressing together as he looked back to Mary's father.

"So am I, Lord Grantham. So am I."

"Perhaps we should start over," Robert suggested, relaxing his stance somewhat. "Put our past difficulties behind us. For Mary's sake."

This was indeed more than he had dared to expect.

"Agreed," Charles responded directly. "And for George's, as well."

The mention of the boy earned him a look of surprise, but Robert nodded in appreciation, extending his hand in the process.

"Agreed."

Charles offered his hand in return, meeting the man on common ground. They shook soundly, neither flinching in their gaze.

"How is she this morning?"

"Better, I think," Robert answered, the first sign of shame crossing his features. "I saw her earlier when she came down to locate a book. I believe she is the nursery with George at the moment."

So Mary had already been up and about. He was both relieved and concerned to hear it, knowing she needed to get back on her feet again, yet wanting to do nothing but wrap her in cotton wool.

"Then if you will excuse me," Charles stated, receiving a nod before he made his way towards the stairs. "I should like to go and check on her, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Robert replied, standing his ground. "She's expecting you."

He nodded in response, moving with a steady deliberation, needing to see her, to hold her, to see for himself that she was indeed improving with each day that passed. But he halted in mid-stride, knowing that something important had been left unsaid.

"Lord Grantham," he called, summoning Robert's full attention.

"Yes, Mr. Blake?" Robert stared at him thoughtfully, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Thank you."

The earl's lips pressed together tightly, and he cast his eyes down for a split second.

"Thank you," Robert replied, looking at him almost as if this were there first introduction. He then turned on his heels, walking away in a silence broken only by the sound of his feet on.

What in God's name had just happened?

Charles shook his head and resumed his course, the thoughts of seeing Mary practically pushing him up the steps. How he had missed her last night, having all too quickly familiarized himself with the feel of her lying beside him, the warmth of her in his arms, the texture of her beneath his fingers. He longed to feel the rise and fall of her chest, to smell the essence of lavender laced softly through her hair.

How had he survived those weeks in America without her?

The path to the nursery was now very familiar, and his stride never faltered until he reached the door. There she sat with her son, the sight of them together almost too much for him. She did look better. He sighed in relief.

"You're later than I thought you'd be," she teased, picking up blocks just knocked over as she attempted to reassemble the castle George had just toppled. "After all of the effort it took to get you to leave last night, I half-expected to find you camped out outside of my door."

"The thought did cross my mind," he confessed, grinning at this show of spirit as he sat on the floor beside her. "Forgive me. There was some business in the stables that I needed to see to personally. I came as soon as it was all sorted out."

"Everything is alright, I hope," she put forth, steadying the rickety structure her son was constructing.

"More than alright," he smiled in return, ruffling George's hair as the child moved to pick up another block. "Some changes have been made that I am most anxious to show you."

"Changes?" she questioned, eyeing him with curiosity. "The stables looked to be in excellent condition when I last visited."

"They were and still are," he returned, placing a precarious piece of ceiling atop the structure, laughing as George's eyes widened in wonder. "But there is something different, something I hope you will approve of."

"Well now I'm curious," she mused, leaning back as the building began to wobble. "Which is rather unfair, actually, as I'm certain you're not planning to take me to Rufforth Hall today."

"No," he admitted with a shrug. "I still think you need to take it easy. Just to be cautious."She rolled her eyes in his direction, fighting off a stab of pain that always accompanied thoughts of the child they had lost. He gently caressed her cheek, drawing her gaze back to him, his understanding readable in his eyes. "But I did bring presents."

George froze, staring at Charles with an owl-like expression as he processed what he had just heard.

"He knows the word, it would seem," Charles observed with a grin, reaching over and tickling the boy's belly until he fell into a fit of giggles.

"It is nearly Christmas," Mary reminded him. "And I'm afraid things were rather gloomy around here last year."

Eyes clouded over briefly as she dropped her gaze, turning back slowly with a smile that nearly broke him.

"You both deserve a splendid Christmas," he stated resolutely, clearing the tightened confines of his own throat. The look she gave him pulsed deep, invading every piece of his framework as she touched his arm.

"I would like it to be festive. Especially for George."

The tower then fell over with a crash, drawing peals of laughter from the boy as he clapped his hands.

"As long as he receives nothing fragile," Charles observed wryly, reaching into a satchel behind him and producing a brightly wrapped box. "Here, George," he stated with a smile, chuckling at the wide-eyed wonder staring back at him. "A present for you."

"Pesnt?" the boy mimicked, clasping the box on both sides.

"Yes, present," Mary instructed, flinching slightly a George dropped the gift of the floor, attacking the paper with feverish gusto. His face scrunched in confusion when his efforts resulted in nothing more than a box, and he quickly crafted a rhythm on its surface with pudgy fists as if it were a drum.

"Here," Charles laughed, turning the box over and opening its lid. "Look inside."

The boy peered over the top in interest, finally flinging the lid aside and staring at the contents.

"Cat!" George exclaimed, clapping again as he bounced in place.

"What is it?" Mary questioned, trying to get a glimpse of what only her son and Charles could see. "What did Cat give you?"

"He just told you," Charles answered, adoring the look of confusion on her face. "It's a cat."

"You did not wrap a kitten!" she protested in concern, her brow creasing further as Charles laughed openly.

"God, Mary, do you really think I would stick a live animal in a box? Or bring George a pet without your consent?"

George joined in the merriment, giggling infectiously as he plopped down in Charles's lap and stuck a pudgy hand inside for his prize.

"Well, you did take it upon yourself to build a house for Biscuit," she pointed out, quickly tossed a look of disbelief as he moved to defend himself.

"That puppy had already taken up residence," he clarified, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Tom and I were simply ensuring that he was provided with accommodations appropriate for a privileged canine."

"Well done," she mused tartly, fighting down the urge to smile at the expressions on the two males beside her. "He thinks he owns the place now. Poor Isis still isn't sure what to make of him."

"She'll sort him out sooner or later," he threw back with a grin. "Women always do if they sniff around a chap long enough."

"If they can get past the initial smell, that is," she retorted playfully, enjoying the exaggerated shake of his head as he conceded her the point.

"Cat," George announced again with insistence, pulling a spotted stuffed toy cat out of its confines. He held it in front of him proudly, inspecting the red bow tie around its neck with interest.

"He's going to have to find something else to call you now," she stated, watching her son's merriment in wonder. "We can't have two cats running around the house."

"He will," Charles returned quietly, holding the boy with the ease of a father. "When the time is right."

The knowledge of what he had just implied hit her soundly, the utter rightness of it nearly taking her breath. She stared at the pair of them yet again, unable to tear her eyes away as George reached up and grabbed Charles's chin. This was the man George knew and the man who knew him. It was not the life she had planned yet it possessed a warmth and beauty she could have never anticipated. Her mind began to reel as memory and reality intertwined.

"And this present is for you."

His voice summoned her attention, and her eyes dropped to the small box in his hand. She took it from him slowly, feeling a heated unsteadiness spread quickly across her nerves.

"I hope it's not another feline," she mused, attempting to quell the rabid thrumming of her heart.

"I think you know me better than that, Mary." His face betrayed him, the combination of eagerness laced with fear making her both excited and hesitant to discover its contents.

"I supposed I should open it, then."

He noted her nerves, reaching over to steady her hand.

"I believe that is the accepted practice when given a gift."

She moistened dry lips, setting herself to the task at hand as she delicately ripped the seam.

"Would you like George's assistance?" he teased, earning himself a tweak of her brow. "He's much faster than you are."

"Must I remind you just who demonstrated the art of package demolition so expertly for him?" she quipped, carefully unbinding one edge of the paper with a clean line.

"There are times when delicacy is overrated," Charles retorted with a shrug. "It takes a certain measure of wisdom to discern such matters."

"Be careful," she threw back as she drew the last of the wrapping aside. "You might yet find yourself commiserating with the dogs."

A carved wooden box stared back at her, beguiling in its artistry and rich hues.

"Look inside," he instructed softly, smiling at her overt curiosity as she dared to pry open the lid. Her breath hitched audibly.

"This is lovely," she observed, removing a carved, wooden horse from the box's lined interior. "The craftsmanship is breathtaking."

"She is a beauty," he agreed, never taking his eyes from her as she examined the sculpture. "Her color is magnificent—a rich chestnut."

"Did you see horses such in Kentucky?" she asked, looking back to him. "The legendary Thoroughbreds?"

"Yes," he confirmed, leaning closer to stroke the horse's back. "When the sun hits a coat of this color, the red hues are indescribable. It's like watching a sunset dash across a field."

"That would be something to see," she added wistfully, allowing George to touch the creature in interest. "You've peaked my curiosity even further."

"Good. I cannot wait to show her to you in person."

Her gaze flickered in a silent question, breaking his smile free in earnest.

"She's yours," he confirmed, chuckling at the gasp escaping her lungs. "The real thing and the model. She was the business I was seeing to in the stables this morning, in fact."

"You bought me a Thoroughbred?" she asked breathlessly, her mouth gaping in spite of herself.

"I did," he stated. "I thought it might be nice for you to have a suitable mount at Rufforth as well as at Downton. I know how much Diamond means to you."

The rapid flutter of her lashes made him laugh once again, and her lips sought to form words, even as her tongue refused to cooperate.

"I don't know what to say," she finally uttered, still stunned by the magnitude of his gift.

"You've said more than enough already," he grinned, stroking her cheek gently as she leaned into his hand. "I'm just delighted you're so pleased."

"Why wouldn't I be?" she inquired, her eyes still rounded. "But my God, Charles. A horse! Have you named her?"

"Of course," he answered, the spark in his gaze exciting her further.

"Well, what is it?" she demanded, punching him lightly on the arm as he hesitated on purpose. His expression became serious as he pursed his lips together, glancing down at the child in his lap before looking back to her directly.

"Wildfire," he answered, noting the flash of recognition in her eyes. "Her name is Wildfire."

"Wildfire," she whispered in return, staring back at him in amazement. "That is lovely."

"I could think of nothing more fitting," he explained, the play of his features tugging at her heart. "For either of you."

God—this man.

"Kiss me, Charles."

The word flew unbidden from her lips, but their intensity was unquestionable. His mouth twitched in spite of himself, the liquid brown of his eyes a most intoxicating brew.

"I thought you'd never ask."

He leaned into her with a smile, fingers sliding with ease over her ear into her hair. His mouth touched down gently, the pressure of his lips against her own infusing her with a warmth she felt all over. Her hand reached up to rest on his chest, her mouth parting in a summons for more of him, a request he was more than happy to answer. God, how she needed him…this man for this life.

"Cat!" George interrupted, thrusting his new treasure in between them. They drew back reluctantly, and he mussed the boy's hair.

"We are going to have to have a discussion about your timing, young man," he instructed with mock severity, unable to keep from grinning as the child gleefully grabbed his nose.

"Yes," Mary agreed wryly. "I can tell you're going to be very stern."

"I'm afraid he leaves me rather defenseless with those eyes of his," he admitted with a shrug, noting the wistful expression that overtook her face. "Between the two of you, I won't stand a chance."

She gazed at her son, seeing so much of her past in eyes that had seen so little.

"He has Matthew's eyes, you know."

A comfortable silence enveloped them, and she marveled at how much less the words now stung.

"I assumed as much," he noted, watching as George began to rebuild his fortress yet again. "And your resilience, it would seem."

She looked into him, smiling softly at his choice of words.

"You know, Mrs. Hughes and I had a very similar conversation once."

He nodded in appreciation.

"Mrs. Hughes is a very wise woman. I knew that from the moment I met her."

Her brow creased in thought.

"And when have you spoken with Mrs. Hughes, pray?"

"When she brought a tray of biscuits and lemonade to Tom and me," he confessed with a grin. "When we were constructing the puppy's house. As I stated, a wise woman, indeed."

"You're incorrigible," she stated flatly, her smile overshadowing any hint of reprimand in her tone.

"And you wouldn't have me any other way," he challenged, his dimples beckoning her as they had so many times before. She leaned in close touching her nose to his before taking his lips firmly with her own. His breath hitched in surprise at the contact, drawing an appreciative noise from her lungs. She kissed him soundly, leaving him breathless as she drew back with a coy grin he knew would stay with him the rest of his life.

"You're right," she murmured, the flush staining her cheeks winding its way around his heart. "I wouldn't."

And for once in his life, he had absolutely no idea of what to say.


	33. Epilogue

_Two Months Later:_

 

She hears his footfalls behind her, shivers as the pad of his finger traces a marked path up her spine.

"It took you long enough."

His chuckle tickles her back as whispered words warm her neck.

"You managed to sneak out rather quickly."

She smiles at his observation, leaning into him slightly, relishing his warmth against skin chilled by the night air.

"Do you blame me?"

Arms slide around her waist, securing her to him as his cheek grazes her ear.

"Not at all. Dinner conversation was rather tedious tonight. If your grandmother had not been present, I might have fallen asleep after the first course."

"The two of you saved the evening, you know. Mama would never admit such to Granny, but she is quite ready to kiss you."

His dimple teases her before his mouth takes over, and he feels the small noise her throat releases as lips graze the back of her neck.

"As delighted as I am to be back in your mother's good graces, it's not her kiss I'm after."

His nose strokes her hairline, teeth daring a nibble that creates an instantaneous, pulsing ache.

"Is that so?"

Her words nearly falter as his mouth descends on her shoulder, and she presses her backside closer at the flutter of his tongue across skin and bone. A large hand caresses her jaw, guiding parted lips in his direction.

"Yes. Quite so."

His response is nearly lost into her pores, the coolness of the night all but forgotten as his breath dances over her mouth. Lips rub ever so slightly, restless fingers clutching his sleeve in a delicate summons. She turns to him, claiming the kiss that she wants, the contact she craves, meeting a need formed rather rapidly that took them both by surprise.

"We shall have to go in soon, Charles." She means the statement half-heartedly, knowing they will be sought out once their mutual absence is discovered but quite reluctant to move from this spot. Shadows play across his face, calling out for her touch as he continues to hold her close. His eyes search hers with meaning before his mouth grazes her temple, the very place he first kissed in the darkened hall outside her bedroom.

"I know."

His lips dot the tip of her nose as foreheads come to rest on each other. She claps his lapel greedily, still awestruck by the lightness residing within her and somewhat terrified that it might slip through her fingers. His palm on the swell of her back steadies her, reassuring her that he isn't going anywhere, that he is here by choice.

That he loves her.

They stand suspended, the sounds of the night cocooning them a moment longer before he breaks the silence.

"But first, there is something I must ask you."

Her eyes fly to his own, widening in wonder, in question, fluttering in anticipation of what she now understands is happening. Surroundings detach from the realm of a reality that is just them, just here, at this moment, in this place.

"Mary, I—" he falters, choking on emotion, dropping his gaze momentarily as he shakes his head at his own nervousness. "You know how much I love you."

Her gazes softens, her heart tripping over itself as she nods in silence.

"I don't want to be without you anymore," he dares, taking trembling fingers into his own warm palms. "I want a life with you. Always with you. Together—as my wife."

The words tumble out as if unpracticed, and his shoulders fall in frustration, wishing he had been more eloquent as he makes himself look at her directly. He begins to kneel, at least wanting to get this part right, to somehow convey everything he feels so richly yet cannot seem to express.

"No. Don't. Please."

He pauses, stunned, unwilling to accept what she has just spoken. Air freezes in his lungs, and he blinks away patches of blackness that threaten to drag him under. The pain in his eyes nearly breaks her, and she reaches out to touch his cheek, needing him to realize something of which she has never spoken.

"Don't kneel down, I mean," she whispers, pleading with him to hear what she means. "Just ask me. Here, like this. Eye to eye."

He suddenly cannot breathe, the reality that she is giving him permission making his legs as sturdy as milk. He stares into her, attempting read what is left unsaid, knowing it has to do with Matthew as he decides to leave it as it is. He leans in and kisses the throb in her temple yet again, needing her with a ferocity that frightens him.

He loves her beyond reason.

"Marry me, Mary," he whispers, swallowing hard before kissing the tips of her fingers. "Please. I—I cannot imagine my life without you in it. And I don't want to."

Everything he is lays open and vulnerable before her, a gift so beautiful she feels the sting of a tear. She cannot help but remember another night, another proposal, and the sense of giddiness that overtook her for days afterwards. This is different. Raw, repaired, yet gloriously brilliant in its imperfection.

"Yes," she breathes, leaning into him, melting into the smile that erupts across his face before succumbing to the kiss that follows. "Yes. I'll marry you."

She is no longer chilled, their bite of early spring lost in the embrace of this man who loves her, whom she loves. She dissolves into him purposefully, allowing the present to permeate every facet of her being, deliberately pushing back the lingering fears of possible loss as she claims a future she now looks to with anticipation.

"God, I-I can't believe it," he blunders, his smile creasing his face brilliantly. Then eyes widen in horror as he fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a small box he nearly drops in his eagerness. "I nearly forgot," he gushes, reprimanding himself under his breath as she laughs. She adores him this way, when his polish slips and parts he tries so hard to keep under wraps emerge in boyish wonder. How different his life might have been had he known his mother, she thinks yet again. But then, he wouldn't have had the advantage of being raised by Lady Catherine. And she would have him no different than he is.

"Your ring," he chuckles, decimating his hair with one hand while the other offers her something of beauty. "I'm really doing a fine job of bungling everything about this proposal, aren't I?" He suddenly looks like a lost Labrador that wants to do nothing but please her.

"You're doing it perfectly," she assures him softly, in awe of the glittering diamond he removes from his confines. "And besides, I've already said yes."

"Thank God." His exhale tickles her arm as he lifts her hand to his chest, kissing a finger now naked he waits to adorn with his mark. "May I?" he questions, his eagerness reminding her of her son on Christmas morning.

"Of course," she assures him as the ring slides on her hand, trembling internally at the turn in her life, in their lives, and what it all means. Course fingers trace her cheekbone as she stares at her hand, and she moves her gaze to that of her intended, this man who turned her existence upside-down in all the right ways.

"It's perfect," she whispers, touching his dimples, caressing his brow.

"You're perfect," he breathes, placing his lips upon hers with a reverence that hurts in its tenderness. They linger together, reveling in this promise of a beginning later in life.

"I'll remind you of that statement," she muses softly, smiling into glistening eyes she will wake up to each morning. "When it works to my advantage, of course."

"I would expect nothing less of you," he returns, rubbing his thumb over the symbol that now proclaims she is his. "My lady."

They stand in silence, time meaning nothing until a gust of wind raises bumps on her skin.

"Let's get inside," he instructs, reluctantly leading her back into the confines of the great house, the warmth of its walls a bit of a shock after the crispness of the night.

"Can we have it in London?" she asks suddenly, her eyes fluttering in thought. "The wedding, I mean?"

She married Matthew at the local church, he knows. It is important to her that everything be different.

"Wherever you wish," he assures her, a deep chuckle warming her insides. "I'll marry you in London. I'll marry you in Rippon. I'd marry you in a barn if that's what you wanted."

"Now that would cause quite a stir," she muses, raising her brows in mischief. "I wonder if we'd even get Granny to attend if we behaved so outlandishly. I doubt she's ever stepped foot in a barn."

"She's missing all the fun," he returns, holding onto her as if she might vanish. "So many possibilities with that much hay in one location." She tosses him a look, one that makes him laugh yet again in its playful intensity. He could laugh for days with the nearly unbearable bubbliness percolating in his ribs. God, he feels like a boy of eighteen at the moment, staring into a life full of nothing but promise.

"Don't be getting any ideas," she demands half-heartedly, holding fast to his arm as they walk at a leisured pace. "I'm not that much of a naturalist."

"Too late," he sighs, drawing her gaze. "The thought of you with straw strewn through your hair has me in such a state it might be inappropriate for me to be anywhere near the rest of your family."

She shivers for a different reason, fighting back the now pulsing urge to drag him behind a closed door.

"I can't wait for you to suggest this locale to Granny," she manages, attempting to quell the sting of heat on her cheeks and detour her train of thought.

"I'll be happy to do so," he agrees, nodding his head. "Providing you tell her we intend to serve Indian cuisine at the reception."

"That information just might be the end of her," she observes with a grin. "And imagine what it would do to poor Carson."

"I shudder to think," he tosses back, stopping their progression to enjoy a few extra moments alone before they are surrounded for the rest of the night. "But Aunt Catherine would be delighted."

"She's a wonder," Mary states, turning into him and tucking an unruly lock around her finger. "I hope she approves of me joining the family."

"She adores you," he replies, the texture of his tone almost silken. "Almost as much as I do."

The kiss cannot be helped, no matter the risk of being seen, regardless of the openness of their location.

"London it is, then," he affirms, unwilling to break their embrace, his gaze of blatant adoration warming toes still chilled from their time outdoors.

"I'm sure Mama would be delighted to have the reception at Grantham House," she observes, pondering plans in the making so different than the arrangements of her past.

"Don't forget I have a townhouse there," he interjects, stroking the ridge of her cheek. "It would be the perfect location for our wedding night."

His words are breathed into her pores, shimmering across pale skin in a promise of intimacies yet to come.

"That would certainly be convenient," she muses breathily, one corner of her mouth slanting towards her ear.

"Very convenient," he agrees with a grin, unleashing dimples that caught her attention the first time she saw him smile. He then sobers somewhat, his gaze shifting to one of curiosity. "I wonder what George will make of all this?"

His question settles slowly, and she looks into the eyes of a man who has accepted her son as his own.

"He'll have you around all the time," she observes, her throat thickening slightly. "I can't think of anything that would make him happier."

"Perhaps a new kite," he offers, noting the slight sheen glossing her eyes that tugs insistently at him. "After all, there was no salvaging of the one you flew into that tree."

"The one you steered, you mean," she insists playfully, warming in regions decidedly impractical for their current situation. "You were my instructor, after all."

"But the control was in your hands," he grins, pushing down the urge to kiss her with all of the unabashed desire boiling under his skin. "It always has been."

Her heart thunders against her rib cage, the blackening of his eyes making it impossible not to touch his face.

"I'm not so sure," she argues softly. "You always seem to distract me in all the right places."

He is burning up, loosening his tie in an attempt to ward off raw heat overtaking every crevice.

"If you keep talking like that, we'll have to elope tonight," he informs her, his voice barely above a smooth growl. "I'll never survive until tomorrow."

She kisses him soundly, open mouthed yet contained, her daring making his pulsing need for her even more painful.

"Mama would kill us," she points out weakly, the temptation to act with such recklessness nearly making her salivate. "And so would your aunt."

"Then let's make it soon," he breathes, the rough texture of his tone making her nearly forget where they are standing. "Please. For my mental stability."

Rich brown holds him mesmerized, a freckle he somehow never noticed making him her captive in every way possible.

"May, perhaps?" she inquires, tweaking her brow as he draws back to study her. "When the earth is warm and green again?"

He can't disguise the unabashed surprise on his face, and a soft noise of appreciation hums through her larynx as his face toys with the notion.

"I like that idea," he states, shaking his head yet again at her unexpected suggestion. "I really wish I could marry you outdoors, you know. I like seeing you out in nature with the wind in your hair and the sun on your cheeks. And in May, you would be beyond glorious." Full eyes stare back at him, shining in the glow of soft light and a lover's endearments. "Under that blasted tree, of course," he replies, grinning boyishly from ear to ear as he awaits her reaction.

"Provided you don't attempt to climb it again," she tosses back, granting him a rather stern look. "I won't be such a nice nurse the next time you fall."

"Promises, promises, Lady Mary."

His dimples shine back at her, and he breathes in as much of her as his lungs can take in, making her knees shiver in response.

"You really are a cad, Mr. Blake," she tosses back, leaning into him until their foreheads touch.

"And you've just agreed to marry me," he returns, weaving an escaped tendril around his finger that he brands with his kiss. "Believe me. I don't intend to expend even the smallest amount of unnecessary energy on our wedding day. I do have my priorities, you understand."

His implication sweeps through sensitized veins, and she feels a redness seep into her neck.

"It's reassuring to know that you're planning ahead," she manages, dropping her gaze momentarily before biting her lower lip.

"All good cads do, you know." Large fingers tilt her chin towards his own, capturing her eyes with an expediency that shakes her. "I love you, Mary Crawley," he asserts, the earnestness in his gaze wrapping her up in him completely.

"I know," she whispers, pulling him to her with a gentle tug on his lapels, laying her lips across his cheek. "And I love you, Charles."

Time stops for him at that moment.

Months later he will tell her how her declaration released him from the last painful threads of his past, how he suddenly knew that he was finally again a whole man. She has done this—has released him, has healed him profoundly in both flesh and spirit. But in this moment, he cannot not speak. Nor can she. And they hold each other close with trembling hands on limbs still unsteady, embracing all the other freely offers with arms that refuse to let go.

* * *

 

Darkness.

She stands bathed in the shimmer of shadows, pewter hues of the moon illuminating skin alight with readiness.

They are finally alone.

Her spine reacts as she senses him just behind, her pulse intensifying as his scent teases nerves already exposed. Shudders slide up her torso at the mere thought of what is to come, her lips parting as her eyes drift shut. Warm hands skim up her arms, taking their time, claiming, knowing. She is his now—totally and completely. And he is hers.

The thought is thrilling, sending slight tremors to knees unsteadied by his nearness alone. His breath touches her neck, and she is lost before they have even begun, this dance of bodies and emotion commencing with a leisurely sway.

A sense of newness floods her veins, skin tingling in response to beginnings forged in the aftermath of devastation. Life pulses, glorious, imperfect, urgent in its grasping, indulgent in its patience. The merging of souls lost, pulled from the wreckage by hands scarred, it is here. It is now.

Her hips rock backwards, seeking her lover still veiled in shadow. Her lover. Now her husband.

His hands find her back, moving. Up and down, over the fabric of her slip, sliding under, just there. Touching skin. Touching her. Fingers drift along her spine, awakening nerves, dimpling flesh it their wake. Hinting at more—whetting an appetite already famished.

Anticipation begins to pulse, dampening regions forced to wait in silence as foreplay is mapped across crevices and plains. Sensation hits anew, building under skin, moving deep.

She wants him. Desperately.

"Mary." Her name breathed in her hair stirs areas unspoken. Always voiced in reverence from his lips, it is a blessing, a declaration of feelings too intimate for further speech. She leans into him, raising a hand over her shoulder, finding his cheek. Stroking his dimple, standing connected. Binding themselves together. His hand brushes the side of her arm, shivers following in his wake. Tracings move further down, skimming her rib cage, lingering on the side of her breast until it puckers in response.

She tilts her head back, resting its weight on his shoulder as his touch progresses, outlining her hip, memorizing curves. Loving his wife.

"Lady Blake," he murmurs into her neck, the pronouncement reverberating through muscle and bone, her fingers snaking into his hair, imprinting his texture on her fingertips.

"Mmmmm.." she manages, lost to most coherent thought, caught in a world of blurred lines and vague images. "I suppose I shall have to get used to the sound of that."

The edge of her slip is caught up in his grasp, the material grazing her thighs as it begins an inevitable ascent.

"There are many things you shall have to get used to," he attests, the husky edge of his voice a marked contrast to the smoothness of his tongue on her shoulder.

"Such as?"

She nearly swallows her own question as teeth graze the juncture of neck and blade, the moisture of his mouth moving down her back as her slip is continually drawn up. Cool air hovers upon regions just uncovered, chills banished, embers stoked internally by hands that cherish.

"I can't give away all of my secrets just yet, can I?" he murmurs across her clavicle. "After all, it is our wedding night."

His resonance tickles her ribs in tandem with his fingernails. Her toes curl under her body. It is too much, the heat of large palms sliding up her abdomen, carrying silk over her head, then caressing just her. It has always been so between them—raw and pure, barriers stripped away in favor of naked honesty. Her nipples pebble, crying out for contact, receiving a brush—a delicious tease that promises more. His touch on her navel is potent, smoothing a band of lace that lingers just on her hips, rimming the edge of what makes her a woman.

Spokes of flame shoot to her core, a rhythmic throbbing setting a steady tempo he gladly follows. Bare chest rubs bare back, course hairs whisking velvet skin, his stance behind her an erotic titillation enveloped by a mind-numbing fog. Lips embark on a moist trail down her vertebrae, making her arch, the contact nearly too much for a spinal cord sensitized. He kneels behind her, her breath catching in the vortex of a position unknown. His breath hovers over her hip.

Dear God.

Heated hands stroke her thighs, kissing where stockings are released, pimpling skin not accustomed to his mouth. A blinding ache grows as it devours, and she bites her lip to stifle a guttural sound clawing a path up her throat. Then lace is eased down, its path trailed by his tongue, her knees nearly shattering when he reaches dimpled indentions. He shifts, moving his stance to her front, kissing his way back up her leg.

Slowly. Ever so slowly.

Muscles begin to lose resolve, the need for support outweighed in the need of this…of him. She steadies her stance on his head, fisting his hair as her torso quivers, as a moan is released. As openings ache.

He tastes the sheen on her skin, savoring her saltiness, humming in appreciation as she begins a slow melt. She is everything to him. Her pulse is throbbing where his mouth is moving, her mind unraveling at the thoughts of what is implied. He cups her bottom with a gentle firmness, now breathing into dark hair shading fertile regions.

His face—so close—unfathomable.

Unsteady air brushes crevices, his nose touching just there, her eyes lolling backwards until all vision is obscured. Limbs jerk in painful need, the reflex of a body near combustion. She is burning, deep pressure pulling and clenching places still unexposed.

"What are you doing?" Her voice hitches, gasping for air eluding her lungs. She does not sound like herself. Blackened eyes look up into her own, his grin drugging her senses even further.

"Merely partaking of my wife."

He says no more.

His mouth flicks her warmth, a shock to her system, heat meeting heat, wet receiving wet. Her knees buckle immediately.

"Perhaps you should lie down for this."

He is already guiding her back, laying her atop sheets, pillowing her head. He covers her body with his own, indulging in a kiss, tongues colliding as a fervor is unleashed. They breathe, greedily capturing the other in the cavern of speech, swelling need in the depths of taste. She is his pulse, he the breath in her lungs, this exchange of life a sacred rite between man and wife. Lips then seek out her breasts, stroking pearls, laving nipples until her mind ceases to function. He draws her in deeper, sucking, nipping, bucking as her nails find his back. There is only color, only sensation, her eyes shut tight to anything but his artistry on her flesh. Ripples fly down her limbs, making her throb as hips rise, seeking what only he can give her.

She nearly jumps from the bed when his tongue slides down, brushing her abdomen, entering her naval. And then… And then…

Mysteries are opened, covered beauty exposed as hands part sacred ground. His mouth moves close, his breath knotting her core until her ribs are too confining. Air catches in her throat as he claims her, flickering strokes in a kiss of unbearable intimacy. He drinks her in, lavishing folds now panting, waves building in tandem to the incoming and outgoing tide of his tongue. She is lost, adrift, sinking and rising into an oblivion of spikes and soft edges. Darts form, pulsing against her from the inside out. Fingers clutch his hair, her pillow, the necessity for an anchor pitching her forward in this overwhelming tumultuous sea. Then a shudder, a jump, and her body is wracking against his, her face tight, eyes sealed, mouth agape. Her hips move of their own accord, crashing…again and again until ripples form, shooting out from her center en route to crest on a shore just beyond her. Swells then decrease in frequency, soothing and rocking.

Breathing…just breathing.

"Dear God, Charles."

A smile laden with satisfaction and want stares back at her, and he makes his way back up her body. His kiss tastes forbidden, spurring a wanton shiver across spent nerves. She traces his upper lip, drawing him into her mouth, feeling heat radiating from a body primed for her.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you, Mary?"

His words go deeper than anything physical, stroking emotions he painstakingly unearthed and cultivated.

"You leave me little room for doubt," she grins in return, fingering dark hair, encouraging him to her. Her hand slides down between them, touching what begs for her, his eyes shutting in response. "Now, why don't you let me show you?"

Hot air prickles her shoulder, beads of moisture pooling on his forehead as her fingers continue their ministrations. She guides him gently, poising him at her entrance, granting him access to all of who she is.

"I love you," she whispers just before coaxing him inside, meeting his gaze as eyes read each other in wonder. He goes in deep, moving just enough, beginning a second dance of souls merged and bodies entwined. Nerves already alert respond quickly, a new progression rising as regions filled are caressed. A moan from his chest reverberates in her ribs, spurring her kiss, inviting a play of teeth and tongue that mirrors what is happening below. Skin slides and sticks, hands groping muscle and flesh as control edges away. It is beginning again, a twirl on the edge, a peak across hidden lands, a step back as he shifts on top of her.

He smells of desire, tastes of sex, the essence of his skin and hair utterly intoxicating. She nips his chin, and he shudders, driving harder. Crashing in. She is lost in him, and he in her, depth and power creating a beautiful yet maddening friction. Lights play behind her eyes, her walls clenching around him, yes—clenching again—and she feels him tremble as he holds back. A wet mouth seizes the juncture of ear and neck, her body arching up to meet him, her arms pulling him down. Then his hand reclaims her breast, kneading what aches as sparks shoot out pores dotting her torso. She is undone. Her body jumps, throbbing around him, cresting, falling, plunging over an edge they fashioned in this bed. Reality swirls recklessly in a mind attuned only to the man inside of her, her release still pulsing as a cry escapes her lips.

Again and again, over and over she rides this burst, until her body slowly wanes and her pulse begins a descent. She then feels him stiffen and senses his need, the sweat of his skin glossing his passage. Legs wrap around his buttocks, urging him on, pulling him tighter, her mouth seeking his as he bucks against her thighs. His moan is low, echoing in her throat as he spends into her womb. Then they are breathing into each other yet again.

Staring. Receiving. Touching. Loving.

"My wife," he pants, the air from his chest gently tickling her scalp.

"My husband," she confirms, wrapping his soul up in hers with soft words of binding. They do not release each other, holding fast until eyes become heavy and breathing lethargic. Restfulness enters on swift feet, warming limbs, slowing blood, luring minds into the promising slumber of the content. Yet she keeps her eyes open, absorbing each detail of this man now her own. His scars, the fine lines that crease beneath his eyes, the few wisps of gray peaking playfully from behind his ear.

He is beautiful. And she loves him.

A soul refastened absorbs the sensation of his heart beating beneath her ear, drinking in thirstily the steady rise and fall of his chest. They have more than survived, done far more than merely exist. They are living. The reality settles within her peacefully, feathering remnants of brokenness rebound across her heart.

There is an intensity and pain found in love born from the ashes, they both understand, scars that will always be present, slight limps that will follow them for life. But there is also an appreciation of such magnitude it nearly renders her speechless, pooling softly in the corners of her eyes as she gazes upon the form of one she never expected. She is finally again happy—with this man, with this life.

And flush with the warmth of what has been discovered and partaken, she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've reached the end of this journey together, and I thank you for reading this story of my heart. There are one shots that belong to Strangers verse that I shall be posting, and I've had a sequel in my head for years. :) Once again, thank you for taking time out of your schedule to spend time in this world.
> 
> Shalom,  
> Laura


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